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LECTURES 


OK  THE 


DRAMATIC    LITERATURE 


OF  THB 


AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 


BY    WILLIAM   HAZHTT. 


^AAAAMM^rfW^^^MWMM^^^^'^^n^^^^N^^^^MWkA^^^ 


NEW-YORK : 
WILEY  AND  PUTNAM,  161  BROADWAY. 

1845. 


A 


/' 


I  /  .■ 


MAtN 


AS  A  TRIBUTE 

TO  PUBLIC  VIRTUE  AND  PRIVATE  WORTH, 

AND  AS  A  MEMORIAL  OF  LONG  AND  TRIED  FRIENDSHIP, 

THIS  VOLUME  IS  INSCRIBED,   IN  THE 

NAME  OF  ITS  AUTHOR, 

TO 

BASIL    MONTAGCJ. 


iViS68£.v^5 


CONTENTS. 


LECTURE  I. 

PAGE 

Introductory. — General  View  of  the  Subject 1 

LECTURE  II. 

On  the  Dramatic  Writers  contemporary  with  Sheikspeare,  Lyly,  Mar- 
lowe, Hey  wood.  Middleton,  and  Rowley 22 

LECTURE  III. 
On  Marston,  Chapman,  Decker,  and  Webster 57 

LECTURE  IV. 
On  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  Ben  Jonson,  Ford,  and  Massinger 85 

LECTURE  V. 

On  single  Plays,  Poems,  &c.,  the  Four  P's,  the  Return  from  Parnassus, 
Gammer  Gurton's  Needle,  and  other  Works 115 

LECTURE  VI. 

On  Miscellaneous  Poems,  F.  Beaumont,  P.  Fletcher,  Drayton,  Daniel, 
Ace,  Sir  P.  Sidney's  Arcadia,  and  Sonnets 138 

LECTURE  VII. 

Character  of  Lord  Bacon's  Works — compared  as  to  style  with  Sir  Thos. 
Brown  and  Jeremy  Taylor 174 

LECTURE  VIII. 

On  the  Spirit  of  Ancient  and  Modem  Literature — on  the  German  Drama, 
contrasted  with  that  of  llic  Age  of  Elizabeth 195 


ADVERTISEMENT  TO  THE  LAST  LONDON  EDITION, 


BY    THE    AUTHOR'S    SON. 


The  former  editions  of  the  Lectures,  originally  delivered  by  the 
author  at  the  Surrey  Institution  in  1818,  and  published  in  the 
same  year,  having  become  exhausted,  the  present  reprint  has 
been  undertaken,  for  the  purpose  of  supplying  the  constant  and 
increasing  demand  which  is  made  for  it. 

There  is  no  feature  in  the  retrospect  of  the  last  few  years, 
more  important  and  more  delightful  than  the  steady  advance  of 
an  improved  taste  in  literature :  and  both  as  a  cause  and  as  a 
consequence  of  this,  the  works  of  William  Hazlitt,  which  hereto- 
fore have  been  duly  appreciated  only  by  the  few,  are  now  having 
ample  justice  done  them  by  the  many.  With  reference  to  the 
present  work,  the  Edinburgh  Review  eloquently  observes,  "  Mr. 
Hazlitt  possesses  one  noble  quality  at  least  for  the  office  which 
he  has  chosen,  in  the  intense  admiration  and  love  which  he  feels 
for  the  great  authors  on  whose  excellencies  he  chiefly  dwells. 
His  relish  for  their  beauties  is  so  keen,  that  while  he  describes 
them,  the  pleasures  which  they  impart  become  almost  palpable 
to  the  sense,  and  we  seem,  scarcely  in  a  figure,  to  feast  and  ban- 
quet on  their  '  nectared  sweets.'  He  introduces  us  almost  cor- 
porally into  the  divine  presence  of  the  great  of  old  time — enables 
us  to  hear  the  living  oracles  of  wisdom  drop  from  their  lips — and 
makes  us  partakers,  not  only  of  those  joys  which  they  diffused, 
but  of  those  which  they  felt  in  the  inmost  recesses  of  their  souls. 
He  draws  aside  the  veil  of  time  with  a  hand  tremulous  with 


vm  PUBLISHERS'  ADVERTISEMENT. 

mingled  delight  and  reverence  ;  and  descants  with  kindling  en- 
thusiasm, on  all  the  delicacies  of  that  picture  of  genius  which  he 
discloses.  His  intense  admiration  of  intellectual  beauty  seems 
always  to  sharpen  his  critical  faculties.  He  perceives  it,  by  a 
kind  of  intuitive  power,  how  deeply  soever  it  may  be  buried  in 
rubbish  ;  and  separates  it  in  a  moment  from  all  that  would  en- 
cumber or  deface  it.  At  the  same  time,  he  exhibits  to  us  those 
hidden  sources  of  beauty,  not  like  an  anatomist,  but  like  a  lover. 
He  does  not  coolly  dissect  the  form  to  show  the  springs  whence 
the  blood  flows  all  eloquent,  and  the  divine  expression  is  kindled  ; 
but  makes  us  feel  in  the  sparkling  or  softened  eye,  the  wreathed 
smile,  and  the  tender  bloom.  In  a  word,  he  at  once  analyzes 
and  describes — so  that  our  enjoyments  of  loveliness  are  not 
chilled,  but  brightened  by  our  acquaintance  with  their  inward 
sources.  The  knowledge  communicated  in  his  lectures  breaks 
no  sweet  enchantment,  nor  chills  one  feeling  of  youthful  joy. 
His  criticisms,  while  they  extend  our  insight  into  the  causes  of 
poetical  excellence,  teach  us,  at  the  same  time,  more  keenly  to 
enjoy,  and  more  fondly  to  revere  it." 


LECTURES 

ON  THE 

AGE  OF  ELIZABETH,  &c. 


LECTURE  I.— TNTRODUCTORY. 

General  View  of  the  Subject. 

The  age  of  Elizabeth  was  distinguished,  beyond,  perhaps,  any 
other  in  our  history,  by  a  number  of  great  men,  famous  in  differ- 
ent ways,  and  whose  names  have  come  down  to  us  with  unblem- 
ished honours  ;  statesmen,  warriors,  divines,  scholars,  poets,  and 
philosophers,  Raleii^h,  Drake,  Coke,  Hooker,  and  higher  and  more 
sounding  still,  and  still  more  frequent  in  our  mouths,  Shakspeare, 
.Spenser,  Sidney,  Bacon,  Jonson,  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  men 
whom  fame  has  eternized  in  her  long  and  lasting  scroll,  and  who 
by  their  words  and  acts  were  benefactors  of  their  country,  and 
ornaments  of  human  nature.  Their  attainments  of  different  kinds 
bore  the  same  general  stamp,  and  was  sterling:  what  they  did 
had  the  mark  of  their  age  and  country  upon  it.  Perhaps  the 
genius  of  Great  Britain  (if  I  may  so  speak  without  offence  or 
flattery)  never  shone  out  fuller  or  brighter,  or  looked  more  like 
itself,  than  at  this  period.  Our  writers  and  great  men  had  some- 
thing in  them  that  savoured  of  the  soil  from  which  they  grew : 
they  were  not  French,  they  were  not  Dutch,  or  German,  or 
Greek,  or  Latin ;  they  were  truly  English.  They  did  not  look 
out  of  themselves  to  see  what  they  should  be ;  they  sought  for 
truth  and  nature,  and  found  it  in  themselves.  There  was  no 
tinsel,  and  but  little  art ;  they  were  not  the  spoiled  children  of 
affectation  and  refinement,  but  a  bold,  vigorous,  independent  race 
of  thinkers,  with  prodigious  strength  and  energy,  with  none  but. 


THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 


natural  grace,  and  heartfell,  unobtrusive  delicacy.  They  were 
not  at  all  sophisticated.  The  mind  of  their  country  was  great  in 
them,  and  it  prevailed.  With  their  learning  and  unexampled 
acquirement  they  did  not  forget  that  they  were  men  :  with  all 
their  endeavours  after  excellence,  they  did  not  lay  aside  the 
strong  original  bent  and  character  of  their  minds.  What  they 
performed  was  chiefly  nature's  handiwork;  and  time  has  claimed 
it  for  his  own. — To  these,  however,  might  be  added  others  not 
less  learned,  nor  with  a  scarce  less  happy  vein,  but  less  fortunate 
in  the  event,  who,  though  as  renowned  in  their  day,  have  sunk 
into  "  mere  oblivion,"  and  of  whom  the  only  record  (but  that  the 
noblest)  is  to  be  found  in  their  works.  Their  works  and  their 
names,  "  poor,  poor,  dumb  names,"  are  all  that  remains  of  such 
men  as  Webster,  Decker,  Marston,  Marlowe,  Chapman,  Hey- 
wood,  Middleton,  and  Rowley  !  "  How  lov'd,  how  honour'd 
once  avails  them  not :"  though  they  were  the  friends  and  fellow- 
labourers  of  Shakspeare,  sharing  his  fame  and  fortunes  with  him, 
the  rivals  of  Jonson,  and  the  masters  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher's 
well-sung  woes  !  They  went  out  one  by  one  unnoticed,  like 
evening  lights  ;  or  were  swallowed  up  in  the  headlong  torrent  of 
puritanic  zeal  which  succeeded,  and  swept  away  everything  in 
its  unsparing  course,  throwing  up  the  wrecks  of  taste  and  genius 
at  random,  and  at  long  fitful  intervals,  amidst  the  painted  gew- 
gaws and  foreign  frippery  of  the  reign  of  Charles  II.,  and  from 
which  we  are  only  now  recovering  the  scattered  fragments  and 
broken  images  to  erect  a  temple  to  true  Fame  !  How  long  before 
it  will  be  completed  ? 

If  I  can  do  anything  to  rescue  some  of  these  writers  from  hope- 
less obscurity,  and  to  do  them  right,  without  prejudice  to  well- 
deserved  reputation,  I  shall  have  succeeded  in  what  I  chiefly 
propose.  I  shall  not  attempt,  indeed,  to  adjust  the  spelling,  or 
restore  the  pointing,  as  if  the  genius  of  poetry  lay  hid  in  errors 
of  the  press,  but  leaving  these  weightier  matters  of  criticism  to 
those  who  are  more  able  and  willing  to  bear  the  burden,  try 
to  bring  out  their  real  beauties  to  the  eager  sight,  "  draw  the 
curtain  of  Time,  and  show  the  picture  of  Genius,"  restraining  my 
own  admiration  witliin  reasonable  bounds. 

There  is  not  a  lower  ambition,  a  poorer  way  of  thought,  than 


GENERAL  VIEW  OF  THE  SUBJECT. 


that  which  would  confine  all  excellence,  or  arrogate  its  final  ac- 
complishment to  the  present,  or  modern  times.  We  ordinarily 
speak  and  think  of  those  who  had  the  misfortune  to  write  or  live 
before  Gs,  as  labouring  under  very  singular  privations  and  disad- 
vantages in  not  having  the  benefit  of  those  improvements  which 
we  have  made,  as  buried  in  the  grossest  ignorance,  or  the  slaves 
"  of  poring  pedantry  ;''  and  we  make  a  cheap  and  infallible  esti- 
mate of  their  progress  in  civilization  upon  a  graduated  scale  of 
perfectibility,  calculated  from  the  meridian  of  our  own  times.  If 
we  have  pretty  well  got  rid  of  the  narrow  bigotry  that  would 
limit  all  sense  or  virtue  to  our  own  country,  and  have  frater- 
nized, like  true  cosmopolites,  with  our  neighbours  and  contempo- 
raries, we  have  made  our  self-love  amends  by  letting  the  genera- 
tion we  'live  in  engross  nearly  all  our  admiration,  and  by  pro- 
nouncing a  sweeping  sentence  of  barbarism  and  ignorance  on  our 
ancestry  backwards,  from  the  commencement  (as  near  as  can  be) 
of  the  nineteenth,  or  the  latter  end  of  the  eighteenth  century. 
From  thence  we  date  a  new  era,  the  dawn  of  our  own  intellect, 
and  that  of  the  world,  like  "  the  sacred  influence  of  light"  glim- 
mering on  the  confines  of  "Chaos  and  old  night ;"  new  manners 
rise,  and  all  the  cumbrous  "  pomp  of  elder  days"  vanishes,  and 
is  lost  in  worse  than  Gothic  darkness.  Pavilioned  in  the  glitter-i 
ing  pride  of  our  superficial  accomplishments  and  upstart  preten- 
sions, we  fancy  that  everything  beyond  that  magic  circle  is  pre- 
judice and  error;  and  all,  before  the  present  enlightened  period, 
but  a  dull  and  useless  blank  in  the  great  map  of  time.  We  are 
so  dazzled  with  the  gloss  and  novelty  of  modern  discoveries,  that, 
we  cannot  take  into  our  mind's  eye  the  vast  expanse,  the  length- , 
ened  perspective  of  human  intellect,  and  a  cloud  hangs  over  and 
conceals  its  loftiest  monuments,  if  they  are  removed  to  a  little 
distance  from  us — the  cloud  of  our  vanity  and  short-sightedness. 
The  modern  sciolist  stultifies  all  understanding  but  his  own,  and 
that  which  he  conceives  like  his  own.  We  think,  in  this  age  of 
reason  and  consummation  of  philosophy,  because  we  knew  nothing 
twenty  or  thirty  years  ago,  and  began  then  to  think  for  the  first 
time  in  our  lives,  that  the  rest  of  mankind  were  in  the  same  pre- 
dicament, and  never  knew  anything  till  we  did  ;  that  the  world 
had  grown  old  in  sloth  and  ignorance,  had  dreamt  out  its  long 


THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 


minority  of  five  thousand  years  in  a  dozing  state,  and  that  it  first 
began  to  wake  out  of  sleep,  to  rouse  itself,  and  look  about  it, 
startled  by  the  light  of  our  unexpected  discoveries,  and  the  noise 
we  made  about  them.  Strange  error  of  our  infatuated  self-love. 
Because  the  clothes  we  remember  to  have  seen  worn  when  we 
were  children  are  now  out  of  fashion,  and  our  grandmothers  were 
then  old  women,  we  conceive,  with  magnanimous  continuity  of 
reasoninsT,  that  it  must  have  been  much  worse  three  hundred 
years  before,  and  that  grace,  youth,  and  beauty  are  things  of 
modern  date — as  if  nature  had  ever  been  old,  or  the  sun  had  first 
shone  on  our  folly  and  presumption.  Because,  in  a  word,  the 
last  generation,  when  tottering  otY  the  stage,  were  not  so  active, 
so  sprightly,  and  so  promising  as  we  were,  we  begin  to  imagine 
that  people  formerly  must  have  crawled  about  in  a  feeble,  torpid 
state,  like  flies  in  winter,  in  a  sort  of  dim  twilight  of  the  under- 
standing ;  "  nor  can  we  think  what  thoughts  they  could  conceive," 
in  the  absence  of  all  those  topics  that  so  agreeably  enliven  and 
diversify  our  conversation  and  literature,  mistaking  the  imperfec- 
tion of  our  knowledge  for  the  defect  of  their  organs,  as  if  it  was 
necessary  for  us  to  have  a  register  and  certificate  of  their  thoughts, 
or  as  if,  because  they  did  not  see  with  our  eyes,  hear  with  our 
ears,  and  understand  with  our  understandings,  they  could  hear, 
see,  and  understand  nothing.  A  falser  inference  could  not  be 
drawn,  nor  one  more  contrary  to  the  maxims  and  cautions  of  a 
wise  humanity.  "  Think,"  says  Shakspeare,  the  prompter  of 
good  and  true  feelings,  "  there's  livers  out  of  Britain."  So  there 
liave  been  thinkers,  and  great  and  sound  ones,  before  our  time. 
They  had  the  same  capacities  that  we  have,  sometimes  greater 
motives  for  their  exertion,  and  for  the  most  part,  the  same  subject- 
matter  to  work  upon.  What  we  learn  from  nature,  we  may  hope 
to  do  as  well  as  they ;  what  we  learn  from  them  we  may  in  gen- 
eral expect  to  do  worse. — What  is,  I  think,  as  likely  as  anything 
to  cure  us  of  this  overweening  admiration  of  the  present,  and  un- 
mingled  contempt  for  past  times,  is  the  looking  at  the  finest  old 
pictures  ;  at  Raphael's  heads,  at  Titian's  faces,  at  Claude's  land- 
scapes. We  have  there  the  evidence  of  tlie  senses,  without  the 
alterations  of  opinion  or  disguise  of  language.  We  there  see  the 
blood  circulate  through  the  veins  (long  before  it  was  known  that 


GENERAL  VIEW  OF  THE  SUBJECT. 


it  did  so),  the  same  red  and  white  "  by  nature's  own  sweet  and 
cunning  hand  laid  on,"  the  same  thoughts  passing  through  the 
mind  and  seated  on  the  lips,  the  same  blue  sky,  and  glittering 
sunny  vales,  "  where  Pan,  knit  with  the  Graces  and  the  Hours  in 
dance,  leads  on  the  eternal  spring."  And  we  begin  to  feel  that 
nature  and  the  mind  of  man  are  not  a  thing  of  yesterday,  as  we 
had  been  led  to  suppose ;  and  that  "  there  are  more  things  be- 
tween heaven  and  earth  than  were  ever  dreamt  of  in  our  philoso- 
phy."— Or  grant  that  we  improve,  in  some  respects,  in  a  uni- 
formly progressive  ratio,  and  build,  Babel-high,  on  the  foundation 
of  other  men's  knowledge,  as  in  matters  of  science  and  specula- 
tive inquiry,  where,  by  going  often  over  the  same  general  ground, 
certain  general  conclusions  have  been  arrived  at,  and  in  the 
number  of  persons  reasoning  on  a  given  subject,  truth  has  at  last 
been  hit  upon,  and  long-established  error  exploded ;  yet  this  does 
not  apply  to  cases  of  individual  power  and  knowledge,  to  a  million 
of  things  besides,  in  which  we  are  still  to  seek  as  much  as  ever, 
and  in  which  we  can  only  hope  to  find,  by  going  to  the  fountain- 
head  of  thought  and  experience.  We  are  quite  wrong  in  sup- 
posing (as  we  are  apt  to  do),  that  we  can  plead  an  exclusive  title 
to  wit  and  wisdom,  to  taste  and  genius,  as  the  net  produce  and 
clear  reversion  of  the  age  we  live  in,  and  that  all  we  have  to 
do  to  be  great  is  to  despise  those  who  have  gone  before  us  as 
nothing. 

Or  even  if  we  admit  a  saving  clause  in  this  sweeping  pro- 
scription, and  do  not  make  the  rule  absolute,  the  very  nature  of 
the  exception  shows  the  spirit  in  which  they  are  made.  We 
single  out  one  or  two  striking  instances,  say  Shakspeare  or  Lord 
Bacon,  which  we  would  fain  treat  as  prodigies,  and  as  a  marked 
contrast  to  the  rudeness  and  barbarism  that  surrounded  them. 
These  we  delight  to  dwell  upon  and  magnify ;  the  praise  and 
wonder  we  heap  upon  their  shrines  are  at  the  expense  of  the 
time  in  which  they  lived,  and  would  leave  it  poor  indeed.  We 
make  them  out  something  more  than  human,  "  matchless,  di- 
vine, what  we  will,"  so  to  make  them  no  rule  for  their  age,  and 
no  infringement  of  the  abstract  claim  to  superiority  which  we 
set  up.  Instead  of  letting  them  reflect  any  lustre,  or  add  any 
credit  to  the  period  of  history  to  which  they  rightfully  belong, 


THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 


we  only  make  use  of  their  example  to  insult  and  degrade  it  still 
more  beneath  our  own  level. 

It  is  the  present  fashion  to  speak  with  veneration  of  old  English 
literature ;  but  the  liomage  we  pay  to  it  is  more  akin  to  the  rites 
of  superstition  tliau  to  the  worship  of  true  religion.  Our  faith 
is  doubtful ;  our  love  cold  ;  our  knowledge  little  or  none.  We 
now  and  then  repeat  the  names  of  some  of  the  old  writers  by 
rote,  but  we  are  shy  of  looking  into  their  works.  Though  we 
seem  disposed  to  think  highly  of  them,  and  to  give  them  every 
credit  for  a  masculine  and  original  vein  of  thought,  as  a  matter 
of  literary  courtesy  and  enlargement  of  taste,  we  are  afraid  of 
coming  to  the  proof,  as  too  great  a  trial  of  our  candour  and  pa- 
tience. We  regard  the  enthusiastic  admiration  of  these  obsolete 
authors,  or  a  desire  to  make  proselytes  to  a  belief  in  their  extra- 
ordinary merits,  as  an  amiable  weakness,  a  pleasing  delusion  ; 
and  prepare  to  listen  to  some  favourite  passage,  that  may  be  re- 
ferred to  in  support  of  this  singular  taste,  with  an  incredulous 
smile ;  and  are  in  no  small  pain  for  the  result  of  the  hazardous 
experiment ;  feeling  much  the  same  awkward  condescending 
disposition  to  patronize  these  first  crude  attempts  at  poetry  and 
lispings  of  the  Muse,  as  when  a  fond  parent  brings  forward  a 
bashful  child  to  make  a  display  of  its  wit  or  learning.  We 
hope  the  best,  put  a  good  face  on  the  matter,  but  are  sadly  afraid 
the  thing  cannot  answer. — Dr.  Johnson  said  of  these  writers 
generally,  that  "  they  were  sought  after  because  they  were 
scarce,  and  would  not  have  been  scarce  had  they  been  much  es- 
teemed." His  decision  is  neither  true  history  nor  sound  criti- 
cism.    They  were  esteemed,  and  they  deserved  to  be  so. 

One  cause  that  might  be  pointed  out  here,  as  having  contri- 
buted to  the  long-continued  neglect  of  our  earlier  writers,  lies 
in  the  very  nature  of  our  academic  institutions,  which  unavoid- 
ably neutralizes  a  taste  for  the  productions  of  native  genius,  es- 
tranges the  mind  from  the  history  of  our  own  literature,  and 
makes  it  in  each  successive  age  like  a  book  sealed.  The  Greek 
and  Roman  classics  are  a  sort  of  privileged  text-books,  the  stand- 
ing order  of  the  day,  in  a  University  education,  and  leave  little 
leisure  for  a  competent  acquaintance  with,  or  due  admiration  of, 
a  whole  host  of  able  writers  of  our  own,  who  are  suffered  to 


GENERAL  VIEW  OF  THE  SUBJECT. 


moulder  in  obscurity  on  the  shelves  of  our  libraries,  with  a  do- 
cent  reservation  of  one  or  two  top-names,  that  are  cried  up  for 
form's  sake,  and  to  save  the  national  character.  Thus  we  keep 
a  few  of  these  always  ready  in  capitals,  and  strike  off  the  rest 
to  prevent  the  tendency  to  a  superfluous  population  in  the  repub- 
lic of  letters ;  in  other  words,  to  prevent  the  writers  from  be- 
coming more  numerous  than  the  readers.  The  ancients  are  be- 
come effete  in  this  respect,  they  no  longer  increase  and  multiply  ; 
or  if  they  have  imitators  among  us,  no  one  is  expected  to  read, 
and  still  less  to  admire  them.  It  is  not  possible  that  the  learned 
professors  and  the  reading  public  should  clash  in  this  way,  or 
necessary  for  them  to  use  any  precautions  against  each  other. 
But  it  is  not  the  same  with  the  living  languages,  where  there  is 
danger  of  being  overwhelmed  by  the  crowd  of  competitors,  and 
pedantry  has  combined  with  ignorance  to  cancel  their  unsatisfied 
claims. 

We  affect  to  wonder  at  Shakspeare,  and  one  or  two  more  of 
that  period,  as  solitary  instances  upon  record  ;  whereas  it  is  our 
own  dearth  of  information  that  makes  the  waste  ;  for  there  is  no 
time  more  populous  of  intellect,  or  more  prolific  of  intellectual 
wealth,  than  the  one  we  are  speaking  of.  Shakspeare  did  not 
look  upon  himself  in  this  light,  as  a  sort  of  monster  of  poetical 
genius,  or  on  his  contemporaries  as  "  less  than  smallest  dwarfs," 
when  he  speaks  with  true,  not  false  modesty,  of  himself  and 
them,  and  of  his  wayward  thoughts,  "  desiring  this  man's  art, 
and  that  man's  scope."  We  fancy  that  there  were  no  such  men, 
that  could  either  add  to  or  take  anything  away  from  him,  but 
such  there  were.  He  indeed  overlooks  and  commands  the  admi- 
ration of  posterity,  but  he  does  it  from  the  iahle-Iand  of  the  age 
in  which  he  lived.  He  towered  above  his  fellows,  "in  shape 
and  gesture  proudly  eminent,"  but  he  was  one  of  a  race  of 
giants,  the  tallest,  the  strongest,  the  most  graceful,  and  beautiful 
of  them ;  but  it  was  a  common  and  a  noble  brood.  He  was  not 
something  sacred  and  aloof  from  the  vulgar  herd  of  men,  but 
shook  hands  with  nature  and  the  circumstances  of  the  time,  and 
is  distinguished  from  his  immediate  contemporaries,  not  in  kind, 
but  in  degree  and  greater  variety  of  excellence.  He  did  not 
form  a  class  or  species  by  himself,  but  belonged  to  a  class  or 


8  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

species.  His  age  was  necessary  to  him ;  nor  could  he  have 
been  wrenched  from  his  place  in  the  edifice  of  which  he  was  so 
conspicuous  a  part,  without  equal  injury  to  himself  and  it.  Mr. 
Wordsworth  says  of  Milton,  that  "  his  soul  was  like  a  star, 
and  dwelt  apart."  This  cannot  be  said  with  any  propriety  of 
Shakspeare,  who  certainly  moved  in  a  constellation  of  bright 
luminaries,  and  "  drew  after  him  a  third  part  of  the  heavens." 
If  we  allow,  for  argument's  sake  (or  for  truth's,  which  is  better), 
that  he  was  in  himself  equal  to  all  his  competitors  put  together ; 
yet  there  was  more  dramatic  excellence  in  that  age  than  in  the 
whole  of  the  period  that  has  elapsed  since.  If  his  contempo- 
raries, with  their  united  strength,  would  hardly  make  one  Shaks- 
peare,  certain  it  is  that  all  his  successors  would  not  make  half  a 
one.  With  the  exception  of  a  single  writer,  Otway,  and  of  a 
single  play  of  his  ('  Venice  Preserved'),  there  is  nobody  in  tra- 
gedy and  dramatic  poetry  (I  do  not  here  speak  of  comedy),  to  be 
compared  to  the  great  men  of  the  age  of  Shakspeare,  and  im- 
mediately after.  They  are  a  mighty  phalanx  of  kindred  spirits 
closing  him  round,  moving  in  the  same  orbit,  and  impelled  by  the 
same  causes  in  their  whirling  and  eccentric  career.  They  had 
the  same  faults  and  the  same  excellences  ;  the  same  strength, 
and  depth,  and  richness,  the  same  truth  of  character,  passion, 
imagination,  thought  and  language,  thrown,  heaped,  massed  to- 
gether without  careful  polishing  or  exact  method,  but  poured  out 
in  unconcerned  profusion  from  the  lap  of  nature  and  genius  in 
boundless  and  unrivalled  magnificence.  .The  sweetness  of 
Decker,  the  thought  of  Marston,  the  gravity  of  Chapman,  the 
grace  of  Fletcher  and  his  young-eyed  wit,  Jonson's  learned  sock, 
the  flowing  vein  of  Middleton,  Hey  wood's  ease,  the  pathos  of 
Webster,  and  Marlowe's  deep  designs,  add  a  double  lustre  to  the 
sweetness,  thought,  gravity,  grace,  wit,  artless  nature,  copious- 
ness, case,  pathos,  and  sublime  conceptions  of  Shakspeare 's 
Muse./  They  are  indeed  the_sca^e  by  which  we  can  best  ascend 
to  the  true  knowledge  and  love  of  him.  Our  admiration  of  them 
does  not  lessen  our  relish  for  him  :  but,  on  the  contrary,  increases 
and  confirms  it.  For  such  an  extraordinary  combination  and 
development  of  fancy  and  genius  many  causes  may  be  assigned, 
and  we  seek  for  the  chief  of  them  in  religion,  in  politics,  in  the 


GENERAL  VIEW  OF  THE  SUBJECT. 


circumstances  of  the  time,  the  recent  diffusion  of  letters,  in  local 
situation,  and  in  the  character  of  the  men  ^vho  adorned  that 
period,  and  availed  themselves  so  nobly  of  the  advantages  placed 
within  their  reach. 

I  shall  here  attempt  to  give  a  general  sketch  of  these  causes, 
and  of  the  manner  in  which  they  operated  to  mould  and  stamp  the 
poetry  of  the  country  at  the  period  of  which  I  have  to  treat ;  in- 
dependently of  incidental  and  fortuitous  causes,  for  which  there 
is  no  accounting,  but  which,  after  all,  have  often  the  greatest  share 
in  determining  the  most  important  results. 

The  first  cause  I  shall  mention,  as  contributing  to  this  general 
effect,  was  the  Reformation,  which  had  just  then  taken  place. 
This  event  gave  a  mighty  impulse,  and  increased  activity  to 
thought  and  inquiry,  and  agitated  the  inert  mass  of  accumulated 
prejudices  throughout  Europe.     The  effect  of  the  concussion  was 
general,  but  the  shock  was  greatest  in  this  country.     It  toppled 
down  the  full-grown,  intolerable  abuses  of  centuries  at  a  blow  ; 
heaved  the  ground  from  under  the  feet  of  bigoted  faith  and  slav- 
ish obedience ;  and  the  roar  and  dashing  of  opinions,  loosened 
from  their  accustomed  hold,  might  be  heard  like  the  noise  of  an 
angry  sea,  and  has  never  yet  subsided.     Germany  first  broke 
the  spell  of  misbegotten    fear,    and  gave  the  watchword ;   but 
England  joined  the  shout,  and  echoed  it  back  with  her  island 
voice  from  her  thousand  cliffs  and  craggy  shores,  in  a  longer  and 
a  louder  strain.     With  that  cry  the  genius  of  Great  Britain  rose 
and  threw  down  the  gauntlet  to  the  nations.   There  was  a  mighty 
fermentation  :  the  waters  were  out ;    public  opinion  was  in  a 
state  of  projection.     Liberty  was  held  out  to  all  to  think  and 
speak  the  truth.     Men's  brains  were  busy  ;  their  spirits  stirring ; 
their  hearts  full ;  and  their  hands  not  idle.     Their  eyes  were 
open  to  expect  the  greatest  things,  and  their  ears  burned  with  cu- 
riosity and  zeal  to  know  the  truth,  that  the  truth  might  make  them 
free.     The  death-blow  which  had  been  struck  at  scarlet  vice 
and  bloated  hypocrisy  loosened  their  tongues,  and  made  the  talis- 
mans and  love-tokens  of  Popish  superstition,  with  which  she  had 
beguiled  her  followers  and  committed  abominations  with  the  peo- 
ple, fall  harmless  from  their  necks. 

The  translation  of  the  Bible  was  the  chief  engine  in  the  great 
2 


10  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 


work.  It  threw  open,  by  a  secret  spring,  the  rich  treasures  of 
religion  and  morality,  which  had  been  there  locked  up  as  in  a 
shrine.  It  revealed  the  visions  of  the  prophets,  and  conveyed  the 
lessons  of  inspired  teachers  (such  they  were  thought)  to  the 
meanest  of  the  people.  It  gave  them  a  common  interest  in  the 
common  cause.  Their  hearts  burnt  within  them  as  they  read. 
It  gave  a  mind  to  the  people,  by  giving  them  common  subjects  of 
thought  and  feeling.  It  cemented  their  union  of  character  and 
sentiment :  it  created  endless  diversity  and  collision  of  opinion. 
They  found  objects  to  employ  their  faculties,  and  a  motive  in  the 
magnitude  of  the  consequences  attached  to  them,  to  exert  the  utmost 
eagerness  in  the  pursuit  of  truth,  and  the  most  daring  intrepidity  in 
maintaining  it.  Religious  controversy  sharpens  the  understand- 
ing by  the  subtlety  and  remoteness  of  the  topics  it  discusses,  and 
braces  the  will  by  their  infinite  importance.  We  perceive  in 
the  history  of  this  period  a  nervous  masculine  intellect.  No 
levity,  no  feebleness,  no  indifference ;  or  if  there  were,  it  is  a 
relaxation  from  the  intense  activity  which  gives  a  tone  to  its 
general  character.  But  there  is  a  gravity  approaching  to  piety  ; 
a  seriousness  of  impression,  a  conscientious  severity  of  argu- 
ment, an  habitual  fervour  and  enthusiasm  in  their  mode  of  han- 
dling almost  every  subject.  The  debates  of  the  schoolmen  were 
sharp  and  subtle  enough  ;  but  they  wanted  interest  and  grandeur, 
and  were,  besides,  confined  to  a  few  :  they  did  not  affect  the  gene- 
ral mass  of  the  community.  But  the  Bible  was  thrown  open  to 
all  ranks  and  conditions  "  to  run  and  read,"  with  its  wonderful 
table  of  contents  from  Genesis  to  the  Revelations.  Every  vil- 
lage in  England  would  present  the  scene  so  well  described  in 
Burns's  Cotter's  Saturday  Night.  I  cannot  think  that  all  this  va- 
riety and  weight  of  knowledge  could  be  thrown  in  all  at  once 
upon  the  mind  of  a  people,  and  not  make  some  impression  upon 
it,*  the  traces  of  which  might  be  discerned  in  the  manners  and 
literature  of  the  age.  For,  to  leave  more  disputable  points,  and 
take  only  the  historical  parts  of  the  Old  Testament,  or  the  moral 
sentiments  of  the  New,  there  is  nothing  like  them  in  the  power 
of  exciting  awe  and  admiration,  or  of  rivetting  sympathy.  We 
see  what  Milton  has  made  of  the  account  of  the  Creation,  from 
the  manner  in  which  he  has  treated  it,  imbued  and  impregnated 


GENERAL  VIEW  OF  THE  SUBJECT.  11 

with  the  spirit  of  the  time  of  which  we  speak.  Or  what  is  there 
equal  (in  that  romantic  interest  and  patriarchal  simplicity  which 
goes  to  the  heart  of  a  country,  and  rouses  it,  as  it  were,  from  its 
lair  in  wastes  and  wildnesses)  to  the  story  of  Joseph  and  his  Breth- 
ren, of  Rachael  and  Lahan,  of  Jacob's  Dream,  of  Ruth  and 
Boaz,  the  descriptions  in  the  book  of  Job,  the  deliverance  of  the 
Jews  out  of  Egypt,  or  the  account  of  their  captivity  and  return 
from  Babylon  ?  There  is  in  all  these  parts  of  the  Scripture, 
and  numberless  more  of  the  same  kind,  to  pass  over  the  Orphic 
hymns  of  David,  the  prophetic  denunciations  of  Isaiah,  or  the 
gorgeous  visions  of  Ezekiel,  an  originality,  a  vastness  of  con- 
ception, a  depth  and  tenderness  of  feeling,  and  a  touching  simpli- 
city in  the  mode  of  narration,  which  he  who  does  not  feel  must 
be  made  of  no  "  penetrable  stuff."  There  is  something  in  the 
character  of  Christ  too  (leaving  religious  faith  quite  out  of  the 
question)  of  more  sweetness  and  majesty,  and  more  likely  to  work 
a  change  in  the  mind  of  man,  by  the  contemplation  of  its  idea 
alone,  than  any  to  be  found  in  history,  whether  actual  or  feigned. 
This  character  is  that  of  a  sublime  humanity,  such  as  was  never 
seen  on  earth  before  nor  since.  This  shone  manifestly  both  in  his 
words  and  actions.  We  see  it  in  his  washing  the  disciples'  feet 
the  night  before  his  death,  that  unspeakable  instance  of  humility 
and  love,  "  above  all  art,  all  meanness,  and  all  pride  ;"  and  in 
the  leave  he  took  of  them  on  that  occasion,  "  My  peace  I  give 
unto  you :  that  peace  which  the  world  cannot  give,  give  I  unto 
you  ;"  and  in  his  last  commandment,  that  "  they  should  love  one 
another.''  Who  can  read  the  account  of  his  behaviour  on  the 
cross,  when  turning  to  his  mother  he  said,  "  Woman,  behold  thy 
son,"  and  to  the  disciple  John,  "  Behold  thy  mother,"  and  "  from 
that  hour  that  disciple  took  her  to  his  own  home,"  without  having 
his  heart  smote  within  him  ?  We  see  it  in  his  treatment  of  the 
woman  taken  in  adultery,  and  in  his  excuse  for  the  woman  who 
poured  precious  ointment  on  his  garment  as  an  offering  of  devo- 
tion and  love,  which  is  here  all  in  all.  His  religion  was  the  re- 
ligion of  the  heart.  We  see  it  in  his  discourse  with  the  disciples 
as  they  walked  together  towards  Emmaus,  when  their  hearts 
burned  within  them ;  in  his  sermon  from  the  Mount,  in  his  para- 
ble of  the  good  Samaritan,  and  in  that  of  the  Prodigal  Son — in 


12  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

every  act  and  word  of  his  life,  a  grace,  a  mildness,  a  dignity  of 
love,  a  patience  and  wisdom  worthy  of  the  Son  of  God.  His 
whole  life  and  being  were  imbued,  steeped  in  this  word,  charity ; 
it  was  the  spring,  the  well-head  from  which  every  thought  and 
feeling  gushed  into  act ;  and  it  was  this  that  breathed  a  mild 
glory  from  his  face  in  that  last  agony  upon  the  cross,  "  when  the 
meek  Saviour  bowed  his  head  and  died,"  praying  for  his  enemies. 
He  was  the  first  true  teacher  of  morality  ;  for  he  alone  conceived 
the  idea  of  a  pure  humanity.  He  redeemed  man  from  the  wor- 
ship of  that  idol,  self,  and  instructed  him  by  precept  and  ex- 
ample to  love  his  neighbour  as  himself,  to  forgive  our  enemies,  to 
do  good  to  those  that  curse  us  and  despitefully  use  us.  He  taught 
the  love  of  good  for  the  sake  of  good,  without  regard  to  personal 
or  sinister  views,  and  made  the  affections  of  the  heart  the  sole 
seat  of  morality,  instead  of  the  pride  of  the  understanding  or  the 
sternness  of  the  will.  In  answering  the  question,  "  who  is  our 
neighbour  ?"  as  one  who  stands  in  need  of  our  assistance,  and 
whose  wounds  we  can  bind  up,  he  has  done  more  to  humanize 
the  thoughts  and  tame  the  unruly  passions,  than  all  who  have 
tried  to  reform  and  benefit  mankind.  The  very  idea  of  abstract 
benevolence,  of  the  desire  to  do  good  because  another  wants  our 
services,  and  of  regarding  the  human  race  as  one  family,  the 
offspring  of  one  common  parent,  is  hardly  to  be  found  in  any 
other  code  or  system.  It  was  "  to  the  Jews  a  stumbling  block, 
and  to  the  Greeks  foolishness."  The  Greeks  and  Romans 
never  thought  of  considering  others,  but  as  they  were  Greeks 
or  Romans,  as  they  were  bound  to  them  by  certain  positive 
ties,  or,  on  the  other  hand,  as  separated  from  them  by  fiercer 
antipathies.  Their  virtues  were  the  virtues  of  political  ma- 
chines, their  vices  were  the  vices  of  demons,  ready  to  inflict 
or  endure  pain  with  obdurate  and  remorseless  inflexibility  of 
purpose.  But  in  the  Christian  religion,  "  we  perceive  a  sofl- 
ness  coming  over  the  heart  of  a  nation,  and  the  iron  scales 
that  fence  and  harden  it,  melt  and  drop  off."  It  becomes  mal- 
leable, capable  of  pity,  of  forgiveness,  of  relaxing  in  its  claims, 
and  remitting  its  power.  We  strike  it,  and  it  does  not  hurt  us  : 
it  is  not  steel  or  marble,  but  flesh  and  blood,  clay  tempered  with 
tears,  and  "  sof\  as  sinews  of  the  new-born  babe."     The  gospel 


GENERAL  VIEW  OF  THE  SUBJECT.  13 

was  first  preached  to  the  poor,  for  it  consulted  their  wants  and 
interests,  not  its  own  pride  and  arrogance.  It  first  promulgated 
the  equality  of  mankind  in  the  community  of  duties  and  benefits. 
It  denounced  the  iniquities  of  the  chief  priests  and  pharisees,  and 
declared  itself  at  variance  with  principalities  and  powers,  for  it 
sympathizes  not  with  the  oppressor,  but  the  oppressed.  It  first 
abolished  slavery,  for  it  did  not  consider  the  power  of  the  will 
to  inflict  injury,  as  clothing  it  with  a  right  to  do  so.  Its  law  is 
good,  not  power.  It  at  the  same  time  tended  to  wean  the  mind 
from  the  grossness  of  sense,  and  a  particle  of  its  divine  flame 
was  lent  to  brighten  and  purify  the  lamp  of  love ! 

There  have  been  persons  who,  being  sceptics  as  to  the  divine 
mission  of  Christ,  have  taken  an  accountable  prejudice  to  his 
doctrines,  and  have  been  disposed  to  deny  the  merit  of  his  charac- 
ter ;  but  this  was  not  the  feeling  of  the  great  men  in  the  age  of 
Elizabeth  (whatever  might  be  their  belief,)  one  of  whom  says  of 
him,  with  a  boldness  equal  to  its  piety  : 

"  The  best  of  men 
That  e'er  wore  earth  about  him,  was  a  sufferer ; 
A  soft,  meek,  patient,  humble,  tranquil  spirit ; 
The  first  true  gentleman  that  ever  breathed." 

This  was  old  honest  Decker,  and  the  lines  ought  to  embalm 
his  memory  to  every  one  who  has  a  sense  either  of  religion,  or 
philosophy,  or  humanity,  or  true  genius.  Nor  can  I  help  think- 
ing, that  we  may  discern  the  traces  of  the  influence  exerted  by 
religious  faith  in  the  spirit  of  the  poetry  of  the  age  of  Elizabeth, 
in  the  means  of  exciting  terror  and  pity,  in  the  delineation  of  the 
passions  of  grief,  remorse,  love,  sympathy,  the  sense  of  shame, 
in  the  fond  desires,  the  longings  after  immortality,  in  the  heaven 
of  hope,  and  the  abyss  of  despair  it  lays  open  before  us.* 

The  literature  of  this  age,  then,  I  would  say,  was  strongly  in- 
fluenced (among  other  causes,)  first  by  the  spirit  of  Christianity, 
and  secondly,  by  the  spirit  of  Protestantism. 

The  effects  of  the  Reformation  on  politics  and  philosophy  may 

*  In  some  Roman  Catholic  countries,  pictures  in  part  supplied  tlie  place 
of  the  translation  of  the  Bible  :  and  this  dumb  art  arose  in  the  silence  of  the 
written  oracles, 


14  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

be  seen  in  the  writings  and  history  of  the  next  and  of  the  follow, 
ing  ages.  They  are  still  at  work,  and  will  continue  to  be  so. 
The  effects  on  the  poetry  of  the  time  were  chiefly  confined  to  the 
moulding  of  the  character,  and  giving  a  powerful  impulse  to  the 
intellect  of  the  country.  The  immediate  use  or  application  that 
was  made  of  religion  to  subjects  of  imagination  and  fiction  was 
not  (from  an  obvious  ground  of  separation)  so  direct  or  frequent, 
as  that  which  was  made  of  the  classical  and  romantic  literature. 
For,  much  about  the  same  time,  the  rich  and  fascinating  stores 
of  the  Greek  and  Roman  mythology,  and  those  of  the  romantic 
poetry  of  Spain  and  Italy,  were  eagerly  explored  by  the  curious, 
and  thrown  open  in  translations  to  the  admiring  gaze  of  the 
vulgar.  This  last  circumstance  could  hardly  have  afforded  so 
much  advantage  to  the  poets  of  that  day,  who  were  themselves, 
in  fact,  the  translators,  as  it  shows  the  general  curiosity  and  in- 
creasing interest  in  such  subjects,  as  a  prevailing  feature  of  the 
times.  There  were  translations  of  Tasso  by  Fairfax,  and  of 
Ariosto  by  Harrington,  of  Homer  and  Hesiod  by  Chapman,  and 
of  Virgil  long  before,  and  Ovid  soon  after ;  there  was  Sir 
Thomas  North's  translation  of  Plutarch,  of  which  Shakspeare  has 
made  such  admirable  use  in  his  Coriolanus  and  Julius  Caesar  ; 
and  Ben  Jonson's  tragedies  of  Catiline  and  Sejanus  may  them- 
selves be  considered  as  almost  literal  translations  into  verse,  of 
Tacitus,  Sallust,  and  Cicero's  Orations  in  his  consulship.  Boc- 
cacio,  the  divine  Boccacio,  Petrarch,  Dante,  the  satirist  Aretine, 
Machiavel,  Castiglione,  and  others,  were  familiar  to  our  writers, 
and  they  make  occasional  mention  of  some  few  French  authors, 
as  Ronsard  and  Du  Bartas ;  for  the  French  literature  had  not  at 
this  stage  arrived  at  its  Augustan  period,  and  it  was  the  imitation 
of  their  literature  a  century  afterwards,  when  it  had  arrived  at 
its  greatest  height  (itself  copied  from  the  Greek  and  Latin,)  that 
enfeebled  and  impoverished  our  own.  But  of  the  time  that  we 
are  considering,  it  might  be  said,  without  much  extravagance, 
that  every  breath  that  blew,  every  wave  that  rolled  to  our  shores, 
brought  with  it  some  accession  to  our  knowledge,  which  was  en- 
grafted on  the  national  genius.  In  fact,  all  the  disposable  ma- 
terials that  had  been  accumulating  for  a  long  period  of  time, 
either  in  our  own  or  in  foreign  countries,  were  now   brought 


GENERAL  VIEW  OF  THE  SUBJECT.  15 

together,  and  required  nothing  more  than  to  be  wrought  up,  pol- 
ished, or  arranged  in  striking  forms,  for  ornament  and  use.  To 
this  every  inducement  prompted  ;  the  novelty  of  the  acquisition 
of  knowledge  in  niany  cases,  the  emulation  of  foreign  wits,  and 
of  immortal  works,  the  want  and  the  expectation  of  such  works 
among  ourselves,  the  opportunity  and  encouragement  afforded 
for  their  production  by  leisure  and  affluence  ;  and,  above  all,  the 
insatiable  desire  of  the  mind  to  beget  its  own  image,  and  to  con- 
struct out  of  itself,  and  for  the  delight  and  admiration  of  the 
world  and  posterity,  that  excellence  of  which  the  idea  exists 
hitherto  only  in  its  own  breast,  and  the  impression  of  which  it 
would  make  as  universal  as  the  eye  of  heaven,  the  benefit  as 
common  as  the  air  we  breathe.  The  first  impulse  of  genius  is 
to  create  what  never  existed  before :  the  contemplation  of  that 
which  is  so  created,  is  sufficient  to  satisfy  the  demands  of  taste  ; 
and  it  is  the  habitual  study  and  imitation  of  the  original  models 
that  takes  away  the  power,  and  even  wish  to  do  the  like.  Taste 
limps  after  genius,  and  from  copying  the  artificial  models,  we 
lose  sight  of  the  living  principle  of  nature.  It  is  the  effort  we 
make,  and  the  impulse  we  acquire,  in  overcoming  the  first  ob- 
stacles, that  projects  us  forward ;  it  is  the  necessity  for  exertion  that 
makes  us  conscious  of  our  strength  ;  but  this  necessity  and  this 
impulse  once  removed,  the  tide  of  fancy  and  enthusiasm,  which 
is  at  first  a  running  stream,  soon  settles  and  crusts  into  the 
standing  pool  of  dulness,  criticism,  and  virtu. 

What  also  gave  an  unusual  impetus  to  the  mind  of  man  at  this 
period,  was  the  discovery  of  the  New  World,  and  the  reading  of 
voyages  and  travels.  Green  islands  and  golden  sands  seemed  to 
arise,  as  by  enchantment,  out  of  the  bosom  of  the  watery  waste, 
and  invite  the  cupidity,  or  wing  the  imagination  of  the  dreaming 
speculator.  Fairy  land  was  realized  in  new  and  unknown 
worlds.  "  Fortunate  fields  and  groves  and  flowery  vales,  thrice 
happy  isles,"  were  found  floating  "  like  those  Hesperian  gardens 
famed  of  old,"  beyond  Atlantic  seas,  as  dropt  from  the  zenith. 
The  people,  the  soil,  the  clime,  every  thing  gave  unlimited  scope 
to  the  curiosity  of  the  traveller  and  reader.  Other  manners 
might  be  said  to  enlarge  the  bounds  of  knowledge,  and  new 
mines  of  wealth  were  tumbled  at  our  feet.     It  is  from  a  voyage 


16  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

to  the  Straits  of  Magellan  that  Shakspeare  has  taken  the  hint  of 
Prospero's  Enchanted  Island,  and  of  the  savage  Caliban  with  his 
god  Setebos.*  Spenser  seems  to  have  had  the  same  feeling  in 
his  mind  in  the  production  of  his  Faery  Queen,  and  vindicates 
his  poetic  fiction  on  this  very  ground  of  analogy. 

"  Right  well  I  wote,  most  mighty  sovereign, 

That  all  this  famous  antique  history 

Of  some  the  abundance  of  an  idle  brain 

Will  judged  be,  and  painted  forgery, 

Rather  than  matter  of  just  memory  : 

Since  none  that  breatheth  living  air,  doth  know 

Where  is  that  happy  land  of  faery 

Which  I  so  much  do  vaunt,  but  nowhere  show, 

But  vouch  antiquities  which  nobody  can  know. 

But  let  that  man  with  better  sense  avise, 
That  of  the  world  least  part  to  us  is  read : 
And  daily  how  through  hardy  enterprize 
Many  great  regions  are  discovered, 
Which  to  late  age  were  never  mentioned. 
Who  ever  heard  of  the  Indian  Peru  1 
Or  who  in  venturous  vessel  measured 
The  Amazon's  huge  river,  now  found  truel 
Or  fruitfullest  Virginia  who  did  ever  view  1 

Yet  all  these  where  when  no  man  did  them  know, 
Yet  have  from  wisest  ages  hidden  been  : 
And  later  times  tilings  more  unknown  shall  show. 
Why  then  should  witless  man  so  much  misween 
That  nothing  is  but  that  which  he  hath  seen  1 
What,  if  within  the  moon's  fair  shining  sphere, 
What,  if  in  every  other  star  unseen. 
Of  other  worlds  he  happily  should  hearl 
He  wonder  would  much  more;  yet  such  to  some  appear." 

Fancy's  air-drawn  pictures  after  liistory's  waking  dream 
showed  like  clouds  over  mountains ;  and  from  the  romance  of 
real  life  to  the  idlest  fiction,  the  transition  seemed  easy.  Shak- 
speare, as  well  as  others  of  his  time,  availed  himself  of  the  old 
Chronicles,  and  of  the  traditions  or  fabulous  inventions  contained 
in  them  in  such  ample  measure,  and  which  had  not  yet  been  ap- 
propriated to  the  purposes  of  poetry  or  the    drama.     The  stage 

*  See  8  Voyage  to  the  Straits  of  Magellan,  1594. 


GENERAL  VIEW  OF  TEE  SUBJECT.  17 

was  a  new  thing ;  and  those  who  had  to  supply  its  demands  laid 
their  hands  upon  whatever  came  within  their  reach :  they  were 
not  particular  as  to  the  means,  so  that  they  gained  the  end. 
Lear  is  founded  upon  an  old  ballad  ;  Othello  on  an  Italian  novel ; 
Hamlet  on  a  Danish,  and  Macbeth  on  a  Scotch  tradition :  one  of 
which  is  to  be  found  in  Saxo-Grammaticus,  and  the  last  in  Hoi- 
lingshed.  The  Ghost-scenes  and  the  Witches  in  each,  are  au- 
thenticated in  the  old  Gothic  history.  There  was  also  this  con- 
necting link  between  the  poetry  of  this  age  and  the  supernatural 
traditions  of  a  former  one,  that  the  belief  in  them  was  still  extant, 
and  in  full  force  and  visible  operation  among  the  vulgar  (to  say 
no  more,  in  the  time  of  our  authors.  The  appalling  and  wild 
chimeras  of  superstition  and  ignorance,  "  those  bodiless  creations 
that  ecstacy  is  very  cunning  in,"  were  inwoven  with  existing  man- 
ners and  opinions,  and  all  their  effects  on  the  passions  of  terror 
or  pity  might  be  gathered  from  common  and  actual  observation — 
might  be  discerned  in  the  workings  of  the  face,  the  expressions 
of  the  tongue,  the  writhings  of  a  troubled  conscience.  "  Your 
face,  my  Thane,  is  as  a  book  where  men  may  read  strange  mat- 
ters." Midnight  and  secret  murders,  too,  from  the  imperfect 
state  of  the  police,  were  more  common ;  and  the  ferocious  and 
brutal  manners  that  would  stamp  the  brow  of  the  hardened  ruf- 
fian or  hired  assassin,  more  incorrigible  and  undisguised.  The 
portraits  of  Tyrrel  and  Forrest  were,  no  doubt,  done  from  the 
life.  We  find  that  the  ravages  of  the  plague,  the  destructive 
rage  of  fire,  the  poisoned  chalice,  lean  famine,  the  serpent's  mor- 
tal sting,  and  the  fury  of  wild  beasts,  were  the  common  topics  of 
their  poetry,  as  they  were  common  occurrences  in  more  remote 
periods  of  history.  They  were  the  strong  ingredients  thrown 
into  the  cauldron  of  tragedy  to  make  it  "  thick  and  slab."  Man's 
life  was  (as  it  appears  to  me)  more  full  of  traps  and  pit-falls ; 
of  hair-breadth  accidents  by  flood  and  field ;  more  way-laid  by 
sudden  and  startling  evils  ;  it  trod  on  the  brink  of  hope  and  fear ; 
stumbled  upon  fate  unawares  ;  while  the  imagination,  close  be- 
hind it,  caught  at  and  clung  to  the  shape  of  danger,  or  "  snatched 
a  wild  and  fearful  joy"  from  its  escape.  The  accidents  of  na- 
ture were  less  provided  against ;  the  excesses  of  the  passions  and 
of  lawless  power  were  less  regulated,  and  produced  more  strange 


18  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

and  desperate  catastrophes.  The  tales  of  Boccacio  are  founded 
on  the  great  pestilence  of  Florence ;  Fletcher  the  poet  died  of 
the  plague,  and  Marlowe  was  stabbed  in  a  tavern  quarrel.  The 
strict  authority  of  parents,  the  inequality  of  ranks,  or  the  heredi- 
tary feuds  between  different  families,  made  more  unhappy  loves 
or  matches. 

'The  course  of  true  love  never  did  run  smooth." 

Again,  the  heroic  and  martial  spirit  which  breathes  in  our 
elder  writers,  was  yet  in  considerable  activity  in  the  reign  of 
Elizabeth.  "  The  age  of  chivalry  was  not  then  quite  gone,  nor 
the  glory  of  Europe  extinguished  for  ever."  Jousts  and  tourna- 
ments were  still  common  with  the  nobility  in  England  and  in 
foreign  countries.  Sir  Philip  Sidney  was  particularly  distin- 
guished for  his  proficiency  in  these  exercises  (and  indeed  fell  a 
martyr  to  his  ambition  as  a  soldier) — and  the  gentle  Surrey  was 
still  more  famous,  on  the  same  account,  just  before  him.  It  is 
true,  the  general  use  of  fire-arms  gradually  superseded  the  ne- 
cessity of  skill  in  the  sword,  or  bravery  in  the  person  :  and  we 
find  many  symptoms  of  the  rapid  degeneracy  in  this  respect.  It 
was  comparatively  an  age  of  peace, 

'•  Like  strength  reposing  on  his  own  right  arm  ;" 

but  the  sound  of  civil  combat  might  still  be  heard  in  the  distance, 
the  spear  glittered  to  the  eye  of  memory,  or  the  clashing  of  ar- 
mour struck  on  the  imagination  of  the  ardent  and  the  young. 
They  were  borderers  on  the  savage  state,  on  the  times  of  war 
and  bigotry,  though  in  the  lap  of  arts,  of  luxury,  and  knowledge. 
They  stood  on  the  shore  and  saw  the  billows  rolling  after  the 
storm:  "they  heard  the  tumult,  and  were  still."  Tlie  manners 
and  out-of-door  amusements  were  more  tinctured  witli  a  spirit  of 
adventure  and  romance.  The  war  with  wild  beasts,  &c.,  was 
more  strenuously  kept  up  in  country  sports.  I  do  not  think  we 
could  get  from  sedentary  poets,  who  had  never  mingled  in  the 
vicissitudes,  the  dangers,  or  excitements  of  the  chase,  such  de- 
scriptions of  hunting  and  other  athletic  games,  as  are  to  be  found 
in  Shakspeare's  Midsummer  Night's  Dream,  or  Fletcher's  Noble 
Kinsmen. 


GENERAL  VIEW  OF  THE  SUBJECT.  19 

With  respect  to  the  good  cheer  and  hospitable  living  of  those 
times,  I  cannot  agree  with  an  ingenious  and  agreeable  writer  of 
the  present  day,  that  it  was  general  or  frequent.  The  very  stress 
laid  upon  certain  holidays  and  festivals,  shows  that  they  did  not 
keep  up  the  same  Saturnalian  license  and  open-house  all  the 
year  round.  They  reserved  themselves  for  great  occasions,  and 
made  the  best  amends  they  could  for  a  year  of  abstinence  and 
toil  by  a  week  of  merriment  and  convivial  indulgence.  Persons 
in  middle  life  at  this  day,  who  can  afford  a  good  dinner  every 
day,  do  not  look  forward  to  it  as  any  particular  subject  of  exul- 
tation :  the  poor  peasant,  who  can  only  contrive  to  treat  himself 
to  a  joint  of  meat  on  a  Sunday,  considers  it  as  an  event  in  the 
week.  So,  in  the  old  Cambridge  comedy  of  the  Returne  from 
Parnassus,  we  find  this  indignant  description  of  the  progress  of 
luxury  in  those  days,  put  into  the  mouth  of  one  of  the  speakers  : 

"  Why  is't  not  strange  to  see  a  ragged  clerke, 
Some  stammell  weaver,  or  some  butcher's  sonne, 
That  scrubb'd  a  late  within  a  sleeveless  gowne, 
When  the  commencement,  like  a  morrice  dance, 
Hath  put  a  bell  or  two  about  his  legges, 
Created  him  a  sweet  cleane  gentleman: 
How  then  he  'gins  to  follow  fashions. 
He  whose  thin  sire  dwelt  in  a  smokye  roofe, 
Must  take  tobacco,  and  must  wear  a  locke. 
His  thirsty  deid  drinks  in  a  wooden  bowle, 
But  his  sweet  self  is  served  in  silver  plate. 
His  hungry  sire  will  scrape  you  twenty  legges 
For  one  good  Christmas  meal  on  new-year's  day, 
But  his  ma  we  must  be  capon  cramm'd  each  day." 

Act  III,  Scem2. 

This  does  not  look  as  if  in  those  days  "  it  snowed  of  meat  and 
drink,"  as  a  matter  of  course  throughout  the  year !  The  dis- 
tinctions of  dress,  the  badges  of  different  professions,  the  very 
signs  of  the  shops,  which  we  have  set  aside  for  written  inscrip- 
tions over  the  doors,  were,  as  Mr.  Lamb  observes,  a  sort  of 
visible  language  to  the  imagination,  and  hints  for  thought.  Like 
the  costume  of  different  foreign  nations,  they  had  an  immediate 
striking  and  picturesque  effect,  giving  scope  to  the  fancy.  The 
surface  of  society  was  embossed  with  hieroglyphics,  and  poetry 


20  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

existed  "  in  act  and  complement  extern."  The  poetry  of  former 
times  might  be  directly  taken  from  real  life,  as  our  poetry  is 
taken  from  the  poetry  of  former  times.  Finally,  the  face  of  na- 
ture, which  was  the  same  glorious  object  then  that  it  is  now,  was 
open  to  them  ;  and  coming  first,  they  gathered  her  fairest  flowers 
to  live  for  ever  in  their  verse — the  movements  of  the  human 
heart  were  not  hid  from  them,  for  they  had  the  same  passions  as 
we,  only  less  disguised,  and  less  subject  to  control.  Decker  has 
given  an  admirable  description  of  a  mad-house  in  one  of  his 
plays.  But  it  might  be  perhaps  objected,  that  it  was  only  a  lite- 
ral  account  taken  from  Bedlam  at  that  time :  and  it  might  be  an- 
swered, that  the  old  poets  took  the  same  methods  of  describing 
the  passions  and  fancies  of  men  whom  they  met  at  large,  which 
forms  the  point  of  communion  between  us  ;  for  the  title  of  the  old 
play,  '  A  Mad  World,  my  Masters,'  is  hardly  yet  obsolete ;  and 
we  are  pretty  much  the  same  Bedlam  still,  perhaps  a  little  better 
managed,  like  the  real  one,  and  with  more  care  and  humanity 
shown  to  the  patients  ! 

Lastly,  to  conclude  this  account ;  what  gave  a  unity  and  com- 
mon direction  to  all  these  causes,  was  the  natural  genius  of  the 
country,  which  was  strong  in  these  writers  in  proportion  to  their 
strength.  We  are  a  nation  of  islanders,  and  we  cannot  help  it ; 
nor  mend  ourselves  if  we  would.  We  are  something  in  our- 
ielves,  nothing  when  we  try  to  ape  others.  Music  and  painting 
are  not  our  forte  :  for  what  we  have  done  in  that  way  has  been 
little,  and  that  borrowed  from  others  with  great  difficulty.  But 
we  may  boast  of  our  poets  and  philosophers.  That's  something. 
We  have  had  stronn;  heads  and  sound  hearts  amonf^  us.  Thrown 
on  one  side  of  the  world,  and  left  to  bustle  for  ourselves,  we  have 
fought  out  many  a  battle  for  truth  and  freedom.  That  is  our 
natural  style ;  and  it  were  to  be  wished  we  had  in  no  instance 
departed  from  it.  Our  situation  has  given  us  a  certain  cast  of 
thought  and  character ;  and  our  liberty  has  enabled  us  to  make 
the  most  of  it.  We  are  of  a  stifT  clay,  not  moulded  into  every 
fashion,  with  stubborn  joints  not  easily  bent.  We  are  slow  to 
think,  and  therefore  impressions  do  not  work  upon  us  till  they 
act  in  masses.  We  are  not  forward  to  express  our  feelings,  and 
therefore  they  do  not  come  from  us  till  they  force  their  way  in 


GENERAL  VIEW  OF  THE  SUBJECT.  2l 

the  most  impetuous  eloquence.  Our  language  is,  as  it  were,  to 
begin  anew,  and  we  make  use  of  the  most  singular  and  boldest 
combinations  to  explain  ourselves.  Our  wit  comes  from  us, 
"like  birdlime,  brains  and  all."  We  pay  too  little  attention 
to  form  and  method,  leave  our  works  in  an  unfinished  state,  but 
still  the  materials  we  work  in  are  solid  and  of  nature's  mint ;  we 
do  not  deal  in  counterfeits.  We  both  under  and  over-do,  but  we 
keep  an  eye  to  the  prominent  features,  the  main  chance.  We  are 
more  for  weight  than  show ;  care  only  about  what  interests  our- 
selves, instead  of  trying  to  impose  upon  others  by  plausible  ap- 
pearances, and  are  obstinate  and  intractable  in  not  conforming 
to  common  rules,  by  which  many  arrive  at  their  ends  with  half 
the  real  waste  of  thought  and  trouble.  We  neglect  all  but  the^ 
principal  object,  gather  our  force  to  make  a  great  blow,  bring  it 
down,  and  relapse  into  sluggishness  and  indifference  again. 
Maieriam  superabat  opus,  cannot  be  said  of  us.  We  may  be  ac- 
cused of  grossness,  but  not  of  flimsiness  ;  of  extravagance,  but 
not  of  affectation ;  of  want  of  art  and  refinement,  but  not  of  a 
want  of  truth  and  nature.  Our  literature,  in  a  word,  is  Gothic 
and  grotesque  ;  unequal  and  irregular ;  not  cast  in  a  previous 
mould,  nor  of  one  uniform  texture,  but  of  great  weight  in  the 
whole,  and  of  incomparable  value  in  the  best  parts.  It  aims  at 
an  excess  of  beauty  or  power,  hits  or  misses,  and  is  either  very 
good  indeed,  or  absolutely  good  for  nothing.  This  character  ap- 
plies in  particular  to  our  literature  in  the  age  of  Elizabeth,  which 
is  its  best  period,  before  the  introduction  of  a  rage  for  French 
rules  and  French  models ;  for  whatever  may  be  the  value  of  our 
own  original  style  of  composition,  there  can  be  neither  offence 
nor  presumption  in  saying,  that  it  is  at  least  better  than  our  se- 
cond-hand imitations  of  others.  Our  understanding  (such  as  it 
is  and  must  remain,  to  be  good  for  anything)  is  not  a  thorough- 
fare for  common  places,  smooth  as  the  palm  of  one's  hand,  but 
full  of  knotty  points  and  jutting  excrescences,  rough,  uneven, 
overgrown  with  brambles ;  and  I  like  this  aspect  of  the  mind  (as 
some  one  said  of  the  country),  where  nature  keeps  a  good  deal 
of  the  soil  in  her  own  hands.  Perhaps  the  genius  of  our  poetry 
has  more  of  Pan  than  of  Apollo ;  "  but  Pan  is  a  God,  Apollo  is  no 
more !" 


aa  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 


LECTURE  n. 

On  the  Dramatic  Writers  contemporary  with  Shakspeare,  Lyly,  Marlowe, 
Heywood,  Middleton,  and  Rowley. 

The  period  of  which  I  shall  have  to  treat  (from  the  Reformation 
to  the  middle  of  Charles  I.)  was  prolific  in  dramatic  excellence 
even  more  than  in  any  other.  In  approaching  it,  we  seem  to  be 
approaching  the  rich  strond  described  in  Spenser,  where  trea- 
sures of  all  kinds  lay  scattered,  or  rather  crowded  together  on 
the  shore  in  inexhaustible  but  unregarded  profusion,  "  rich  as 
the  oozy  bottom  of  the  deep  in  sunken  wrack  and  sumless  trea- 
suries." We  are  confounded  with  the  variety,  and  dazzled  with 
the  dusky  splendour  of  names  sacred  in  their  obscurity,  and 
works  gorgeous  in  their  decay,  "  majestic,  though  in  ruin,"  like 
Guyon  when  he  entered  the  Cave  of  Mammon,  and  was  shown 
the  massy  pillars  and  huge  unwieldy  fragments  of  gold,  covered 
with  dust  and  cobwebs,  and  shedding  a  faint  shadow  of  uncertain 
light, 

"  Such  as  a  lamp  whose  light  doth  fade  away 

Or  as  the  moon  clothed  with  cloudy  night 

Doth  show  to  him  that  walks  in  fear  and  sad  affright." 

The  dramatic  literature  of  this  period  only  wants'  exploring,  to 
fill  the  inquiring  mind  with  wonder  and  delight,  and  to  convince 
us  that  we  have  been  wrong  in  lavishing  all  our  praise  on  "  new- 
born gauds,  though  they  are  made  and  moulded  of  things  past ;" 
and  in  "giving  to  dust,  that  is  a  little  gilt,  more  laud  than  gilt 
o'er-dusted."  In  short,  the  discovery  of  such  an  unsuspected 
and  forgotten  mine  of  wealth  will  be  found  amply  to  repay  the 
labour  of  the  search,  and  it  will  be  hard  if  in  most  cases  curi- 
osity does  not  end  in  admiration,  and  modesty  teach  us  wisdom. 
A  few  of  the  most  singular  productions  of  these  times  remain  un- 
claimed ;  of  others,  the  authors  are  uncertain ;  many  of  them 


ON  LYLY,  MARLOWE,  HEYWOOD,  ETC.  23 

are  joint  productions  of  different  pens;  but  of  the  best  the 
writers'  names  are  in  general  known,  and  obviously  stamped  on 
the  productions  themselves.  The  names  of  Ben  Jonson,  for  in- 
stance, Massinger,  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  are  almost,  though 
not  quite,  as  familiar  to  us  as  that  of  Shakspeare  ;  and  their 
works  still  keep  regular  possession  of  the  stage.  Another  set  of 
writers  included  in  the  same  general  period  (the  end  of  the  six- 
teenth  and  the  beginning  of  the  seventeenth  century,)  who  are 
next,  or  equal,  or  sometimes  superior  to  these  in  power,  but 
whose  names  are  now  little  known,  and  their  writings  nearly  ob- 
solete; are  Lyly,  Marlowe,  Marston,  Chapman,  Middleton,  and 
Rowley,  Heywood,  Webster,  Decker,  and  Ford.  I  shall  devote 
the  present  and  two  following  Lectures  to  the  best  account  I 
can  give  of  these,  and  shall  begin  with  some  of  the  least 
known. 

The  earliest  tragedy  of  which  I  shall  take  notice  (I  believe 
the  earliest  that  we  have)  is  that  of  Ferrex  and  Porrex,  or  Gor- 
boduc  (as  it  has  been  generally  called,)  the  production  of  Thomas 
Sackville,  Lord  Buckhurst,  afterwards  created  Earl  of  Dorset, 
assisted  by  one  Thomas  Norton.  This  was  first  acted  with  ap- 
plause before  the  Queen  in  1561,  the  noble  author  being  then 
quite  a  young  man.  This  tragedy  being  considered  as  the  first 
in  our  language,  is  certainly  a  curiosity,  and  in  other  respects  it 
is  also  remarkable  ;  though,  perhaps,  enough  has  been  said  about 
it.  As  a  work  of  genius,  it  may  be  set  down  as  nothing,  for  it 
contains  hardly  a  memorable  line  or  passage  ;  as  a  work  of  art, 
and  the  first  of  its  kind  attempted  in  the  language,  it  may  be 
considered  as  a  monument  of  the  taste  and  skill  of  the  authors. 
Its  merit  is  confined  to  the  regularity  of  the  plot  and  metre,  to  its 
general  good  sense,  and  strict  attention  to  common  decorum.  If 
the  poet  has  not  stamped  the  peculiar  genius  of  his  age  upon  this 
first  attempt,  it  is  no  inconsiderable  proof  of  strength  of  mind  and 
conception  sustained  by  its  own  sense  of  propriety  alone,  to  have 
so  far  anticipated  the  taste  of  succeeding  times  as  to  have  avoided 
any  glaring  offence  against  rules  and  models,  which  had  no  ex- 
istence  in  his  day.  Or  perhaps  a  truer  solution  might  be,  that 
there  were  as  yet  no  examples  of  a  more  ambiguous  and  irregu- 
lar kind  to  tempt  him  to  err,  and  as  he  had  not  the  impulse  or 


24  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

resources  within  himself  to  strike  out  a  new  path,  he  merely  ad- 
hered with  modesty  and  caution  to  the  classical  models  with 
which,  as  a  scholar,  he  was  well  acquainted.  The  language  of 
the  dialogue  is  clear,  unaffected,  and  intelligible  without  the 
smallest  difficulty,  even  to  this  day  ;  it  has  "  no  figures  nor  no  fan- 
tasies," to  which  the  most  fastidious  critic  can  object,  but  the 
dramatic  power  is  nearly  none  at  all.  It  is  written  expressly  to 
set  forth  the  danorers  and  mischiefs  that  arise  from  the  division  of 
sovereign  power  ;  and  the  several  speakers  dilate  upon  the  dif- 
ferent  views  of  the  subject  in  turn,  like  clever  school-boys  set  to 
compose  a  thesis,  or  declaim  upon  the  fatal  consequences  of  am- 
bition, and  the  uncertainty  of  human  affairs.  The  author,  in 
the  end,  declares  for  the  doctrine  of  passive  obedience  and  non- 
resistance  ;  a  doctrine  which  indeed  was  seldom  questioned  at 
that  time  of  day.  Eubulus,  one  of  the  old  king's  counsellors, 
thus  gives  his  opinion — 

« 
"  Eke  fully  with  the  duke  my  mind  agrees, 
That  no  cause  serves,  whereby  the  subject  may 
Call  to  account  the  doings  of  his  prince ; 
Much  less  in  blood  by  sword  to  work  revenge : 
No  more  than  may  the  hand  cut  off  the  head. 
In  act  nor  speech,  no  nor  in  secret  thought, 
The  subject  may  rebel  against  his  lord, 
Or  judge  of  him  that  sits  in  Caisar's  seat, 
With  grudging  mind  to  damn  tliose  he  mislikes. 
Though  kings  forget  to  govern  as  they  ought, 
Yet  subjects  must  obey  as  they  are  bound." 

Yet  how  little  he  was  borne  out  in  this  inference  by  the  unbi- 
assed dictates  of  his  own  mind,  may  appear  from  the  freedom 
and  unguarded  boldness  of  such  lines  as  the  following,  addressed 
by  a  favourite  to  a  prince,  as  courtly  advice : 

"  Know  ye  that  lust  of  kingdoms  hath  no  law : 
The  gods  do  bear  and  will  allow  in  kings 
The  things  that  they  abhor  in  rascal  routs. 
When  kings  on  slender  quarrels  run  to  wars, 
And  then  in  cruel  and  unkindly  wise 
Command  thefts,  rapes,  murder  of  innocents, 
The  spoil  of  towns,  ruins  of  mighty  realms; 
Think  you  such  princes  do  suppose  tliemselvea 


ON  LYLY,  MARLOWE,  HEY  WOOD,  ETC.  25 


Subject  to  laws  of  kind  and  fear  of  gods  'i 
Murders  and  violent  thefts  in  private  men 
Are  heinous  crimes,  and  full  of  foul  reproach ; 
Yet  none  offence,  but  deck'd  with  noble  name 
Of  glorious  conquests  in  the  hands  of  kings." 

The  principal  characters  make  as  many  invocations  to  the 
names  of  their  children,  their  country,  and  their  friends,  as 
Cicero  in  his  Orations,  and  all  the  topics  insisted  upon  are  open, 
direct,  urged  in  the  face  of  day,  with  no  more  attention  to  time 
or  place,  to  an  enemy  who  overhears,  or  an  accomplice  to  whom 
they  are  addressed  ;  in  a  word,  with  no  more  dramatic  insinua- 
tions or  bye-play  than  the  pleadings  in  a  court  of  law.  Almost 
the  only  passage  that  I  can  instance,  as  rising  above  this  didactic 
tone  of  mediocrity  into  the  pathos  of  poetry,  is  one  where  Mar- 
cella  laments  the  untimely  death  of  her  loved*,  Ferrex  : 

"  Ah  !  noble  prince,  how  oft  have  I  beheld 
Thee  mounted  on  thy  fierce  and  trampling  steed, 
Shining  in  armour  bright  before  the  tilt 
And  with  thy  mistress'  sleeve  tied  on  thy  helm, 
And  charge  thy  staff  to  please  thy  lady's  eye. 
That  bowed  the  head-piece  of  thy  friendly  foe ! 
How  oft  in  arms  on  horse  to  bend  the  mace, 
How  oft  in  arms  on  foot  to  break  the  sword, 
Which  never  now  these  eyes  may  see  eigain  !" 

There  seems  a  reference  to  Chaucer  in  the  wording  of  the 
followinsr  lines — 


o 


"  Then  saw  I  how  he  smiled  with  slaying  knife 
Wrapp'd  under  cloke,  then  saw  1  deep  deceit 
Lurk  in  his  face,  and  death  prepared  for  me."* 

Sir  Philip  Sidney  says  of  this  tragedy :  "  Gorboduc  is  full  cf 
stately  speeches,  and  well-sounding  phrases,  climbing  to  the 
height  of  Seneca  his  style,  and  as  full  of  notable  morality ; 
which  it  doth  most  delightfully  teach,  and  thereby  obtain  the 
very  end  of  poetry.'*  And  Mr.  Pope,  whose  taste  in  such  mat- 
ters was  very  different  from  Sir  Philip  Sidney's,  says  in  still 

•  "  The  smiler  with  the  knife  i2jider  his  cloke."— Knighfs  Tale. 
3 


26  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

stronger  terms :  "  That  the  writers  of  the  succeeding  age  might 
have  improved  as  much  in  other  respects,  by  copying  from  him 
a  propriety  in  the  sentiments,  an  unaffected  perspicuity  of  style, 
and  an  easy  flow  in  the  numbers.  In  a  word,  that  chastity,  cor- 
rectness,  and  gravity  of  style,  which  are  so  essential  to  tragedy, 
and  which  all  the  tragic  poets  who  followed,  not  excepting 
Shakspeare  himself,  either  little  understood,  or  perpetually  neg- 
lected."    It  was  well  for  us  and  them  that  they  did  so! 

The  Induction  to  the  Mirrour  for  Magistrates  does  his  muse 
more  credit.  It  sometimes  reminds  one  of  Chaucer,  and  at 
others  seems  like  an  anticipation,  in  some  degree,  both  of  the 
measure  and  manner  of  Spenser.  The  following  stanzas  may 
give  the  reader  an  idea  of  the  merit  of  this  old  poem,  which 
was  published  in  1563  : 

"  By  him  lay  heauie  Sleepe  cosin  of  Death 
Flat  on  the  ground,  and  still  as  any  stone, 
A  very  corps,  saue  yeelding  foath  a  breath. 
Small  keepe  tooke  he  whom  Fortune  frowned  on, 
Or  whom  she  lifted  vp  into  the  throne 

Of  high  renowne,  but  as  a  liuing  death. 

So  dead  aliue,  of  life  he  drew  the  breath. 

The  bodies  rest,  the  quiet  of  the  hart. 
The  trauiles  ease,  the  still  nights  feere  was  he. 
And  of  our  life  in  earth  the  better  part, 
Reuer  of  sight,  and  in  whom  we  see 
Things  oft  that  tide,  and  oft  that  neuer  bee. 

Without  respect  esteeming  equally 

King  Crcesus  pompe,  and  Irus  pouertie. 

And  next  in  order  sad  Old  Age  we  found, 
His  beard  all  hoare,  his  eyes  hollow  and  blind. 
With  drouping  cheere  still  poring  on  the  ground, 
As  on  the  place  where  nature  him  assign'd 
To  rest,  when  that  the  sister's  had  vntwin'd 

His  vitall  thred,  and  ended  with  their  knife 

The  fleeting  course  of  fast  declining  life. 

There  heard  we  him  with  broke  and  hollow  plaint 
Rew  with  himselfe  his  end  approaching  fast, 
And  all  for  nought  his  wretched  mind  torment. 
With  swecte  remembrance  of  his  pleasures  past, 
And  fresh  delites  of  lustie  youth  forewast. 


ON  LYLY,  MARLOWE,  HEYWOOD,  ETC.  27 

Recounting  which,  how  would  he  sob  and  shreek  7 
And  to  be  young  againe  of  loue  besecke. 

But  £ind  the  cruell  fates  so  fixed  be, 
That  time  forepast  cannot  returne  againe, 
This  one  request  of  loue  yet  prayed  he : 
That  in  such  withred  plight,  and  wretched  paine, 
As  Eld  (accompanied  with  lothsome  traine) 

Had  brought  on  him,  all  were  it  woe  and  griefe, 

He  might  a  while  yet  linger  forth  his  life. 

And  not  so  soone  descend  into  the  pit ; 

Where  Death,  when  he  the  mortall  corps  hath  slaine, 

With  wretchlesse  hand  in  graue  doth  couer  it. 

Thereafter  neuer  to  enjoy  againe 

The  gladsome  light,  but  in  the  ground  ylaine. 
In  depth  of  darknesse  waste  and  weare  to  nought, 
As  he  had  nere  into  the  world  been  brought. 

But  who  had  scene  him,  sobbing  how  he  stood 
Vnto  himselfe,  and  how  he  would  bemone 
His  youth  forepast,  as  though  it  wrought  him  good 
To  talk  of  youth,  all  were  his  youth  forgone. 
He  would  haue  mused  and  maruail'd  much  whereon 
This  wretched  Age  should  life  desire  so  faine. 
And  knowes  ful  wel  life  doth  but  length  his  paine. 

Crookebackt  he  was,  toothshaken,  and  blere  eyed, 
Went  on  three  feete,  ?.nd  sometime  crept  on  foure, 
With  old  lame  bones,  that  railed  by  his  side, 
His  scalpe  all  pil'd  and  he  with  eld  forelore : 
His  withred  fist  still  knocking  at  Death's  dore, 
Fumbling  and  driueling  as  he  draws  his  breath, 
For  briefe,  the  shape  and  messenger  of  Death." 

John  Lyly  (born  in  the  Weald  of  Kent  about  the  year  1553), 
was  the  author  of  Midas  and  Endymion,  of  Alexander  and 
Campaspe,  and  of  the  comedy  of  Mother  Bombie.  Of  the  last 
it  may  be  said,  that  it  is  very  much  what  its  name  would  import, 
old,  quaint,  and  vulgar. — I  may  here  observe,  once  for  all,  that 
I  would  not  be  understood  to  say,  that  the  age  of  Elizabeth  was 
all  of  gold  without  any  alloy.  There  was  both  gold  and  lead  in 
it,  and  often  in  one  and  the  same  writer.  In  our  impatience  to 
form  an  opinion,  we  conclude,  when  we  first  meet  with  a  good 
thing,  that  it  is  owing  to  the  age  ;  or,  if  we  meet  with  a  bad  one, 


28  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

it  is  characteristic  of  the  age,  when,  in  fact,  it  is  neither ;  for 
there  are  good  and  bad  in  almost  all  ages,  and  one  age  excels 
in  one  thing,  another  in  another — only  one  age  may  excel  more 
and  in  higher  things  than  another,  but  none  can  excel  equally 
and  completely  in  all.  The  writers  of  Elizabeth,  as  poets, 
soared  to  the  height  they  did  by  indulging  their  own  unrestrained 
enthusiasm ;  as  comic  writers  they  chiefly  copied  the  manners 
of  the  age,  which  did  not  give  them  the  same  advantages  over 
their  successors.  Lyly's  comedy,  for  instance,  is  "  poor,  un- 
fledged, has  never  winged  from  view  o'  th'  nest,"  and  tries  in 
vain  to  rise  above  the  ground  with  crude  conceits  and  clumsy 
levity.  Lydia,  the  heroine  of  the  piece,  is  silly  enough,  if  the 
rest  were  but  as  witty.  But  the  author  has  shown  no  partiality 
in  the  distribution  of  his  gifts.  To  say  the  truth,  it  was  a  very 
common  fault  of  the  old  comedy,  that  its  humours  were  too  low, 
and  the  weaknesses  exposed  too  great  to  be  credible,  or  an  object 
of  ridicule,  even  if  they  were.  The  aflfectation  of  their  cour- 
tiers is  passable,  and  diverting  as  a  contrast  to  present  manners ; 
but  the  eccentricities  of  their  clowns  are  "  very  tolerable,  and 
not  to  be  endured."  Any  kind  of  activity  of  mind  might  seem 
to  the  writers  better  than  none  :  any  nonsense  served  to  amuse 
their  hearers ;  any  cant  phrase,  any  coarse  allusion,  any  pom- 
pous absurdity,  was  taken  for  wit  and  drollery.  Nothing  could 
be  too  mean,  too  foolish,  too  improbable,  or  too  offensive,  to  be  a 
proper  subject  for  laughter.  Any  one  (looking  hastily  at  this 
side  of  the  question  only)  might  be  tempted  to  suppose  the 
youngest  children  of  Thespis  a  very  callow  brood,  chirping 
their  slender  notes,  or  silly  swains  "  grating  their  lean  and  flashy 
jests  on  scrannel  pipes  of  wretched  straw."  The  genius  of 
comedy  looked  too  often  like  a  lean  and  hectic  pantaloon ;  love 
was  a  slip-shod  shepherdess ;  wit  a  parti-coloured  fool  like  har- 
lequin, and  the  plot  came  hobbling  like  a  clown  after  all.  A 
string  of  impertinent  and  farcical  jests  (or  rather  blunders),  was 
with  great  formality  ushered  into  the  world  as  "  a  right  pleasant 
and  conceited  comedy."  Comedy  could  not  descend  lower  than 
it  sometimes  did,  without  glancing  at  physical  imperfections  and 
deformity.  The  two  young  persons  in  the  play  before  us,  on 
whom  the  event  of  the  plot  chiefly  hinges,  do  in  fact  turn  out  to 


ON  LYLY,  MARLOWE,  HEYWOOD,  ETC.  29 

be  no  better  than  chanjTelino-s  and  natural  idiots.  This  is  car- 
lying  innocence  and  simplicity  too  far.  So  again,  the  character 
of  Sir  Tophas  in  Endymion,  an  affected,  blustering,  talkative, 
cowardly  pretender,  treads  too  near  upon  blank  stupidity  and 
downright  want  of  common  sense  to  be  admissible  as  a  butt  for 
satire.  Shakspeare  has  contrived  to  clothe  the  lamentable  na- 
kedness of  the  same  sort  of  character  with  a  motley  garb  from 
the  wardrobe  of  his  imagination,  and  has  redeemed  it  from  in- 
sipidity by  a  certain  plausibility  of  speech  and  playful  extrava- 
gance of  humour.  But  the  undertaking  was  nearly  desperate. 
Ben  Jonson  tried  to  overcome  the  difficulty  by  the  force  of  learn- 
ing and  study ;  and  thought  to  gain  his  end  by  persisting  in 
error ;  but  he  only  made  matters  worse,  for  his  clowns  and  cox- 
combs (if  we  except  Bobadil)  are  the  most  incorrigible  and  in- 
sufferable of  all  others. — The  story  of  Mother  Bomdie  is  little 
else  than  a  tissue  of  absurd  mistakes,  arising  from  the  confusion 
of  the  different  characters  one  with  another,  like  another  Comedy 
of  Errors,  and  ends  in  their  being  (most  of  them)  married  in  a 
game  at  cross-purposes  to  the  persons  they  particularly  dislike. 

To  leave  this,  and  proceed  to  something  pleasanter,  Midas  and 
Endymion,  which  are  worthy  of  their  names  and  of  the  subject. 
The  story  in  both  is  classical,  and  the  execution  is  for  the  most 
part  elegant  and  simple.  There  is  often  something  that  reminds 
one  of  the  graceful  communicativeness  of  Lucian  or  of  Apuleius, 
from  whom  one  of  the  stories  is  borrowed.  Lyly  made  a  more 
attractive  picture  of  Grecian  manners  at  second-hand,  than  of 
English  characters  from  his  own  observation.  The  poet  (which 
is  the  great  merit  of  a  poet  in  such  a  subject)  has  transported 
himself  to  the  scene  of  action,  to  ancient  Greece  or  Asia  Minor ; 
the  manners,  the  images,  the  traditions  are  preserved  with  truth 
and  delicacy,  and  the  dialogue  (to  my  fancy)  glides  and  sparkles 
like  a  clear  stream  from  the  Muses'  spring.  I  know  few  things 
more  perfect  in  characteristic  painting,  than  the  exclamation  of 
the  Phrygian  shepherds,  who,  afraid  of  betraying  the  secret  of 
Midas's  ears,  fancy  that  "  the  very  reeds  bow  down,  as  though 
they  listened  to  their  talk ;"  nor  more  affecting  in  sentiment  than 
the  apostrophe  addressed  by  his  friend  Eumenides  to  Endymion, 
on  waking  from  his  long  sleep  :  "  Behold,  the  twig  to  which  thou 


30  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

laidest  down  thy  head  is  now  become  a  tree."  The  narrative 
is  sometimes  a  little  wandering  and  desultory  ;  but  if  it  had  been 
ten  times  as  tedious,  this  thought  would  have  redeemed  it ;  for  I 
cannot  conceive  of  anything  more  beautiful,  more  simple,  or 
touching,  than  this  exquisitely  chosen  image  and  dumb  proof  of 
the  manner  in  which  he  passed  his  life,  from  youth  to  old  age,  in 
a  dream,  a  dream  of  love.  Happy  Endymion  !  Faithful  Eume- 
nides  !  Divine  Cynthia  !  Who  would  not  wish  to  pass  his  life  in 
such  a  sleep,  a  long,  long  sleep,  dreaming  of  some  fair  heavenly 
Goddess,  with  the  moon  shining  upon  his  face  and  the  trees 
growing  silently  over  his  head  ! — There  is  something  in  this 
story  which  has  taken  a  strange  hold  of  my  fancy,  perhaps  '•'  out 
of  my  weakness  and  my  melancholy ;"  but  for  the  satisfaction 
of  the  reader  I  will  quote  the  whole  passage  : — "  It  is  silly  sooth, 
and  dallies  with  the  innocence  of  love  like  the  old  age." 

"  Cynthia.  Well,  let  us  to  Endymion.  I  will  not  be  so  stately  (good 
Endymion)  not  to  stoop  to  do  thee  good  ;  and  if  thy  liberty  consist  in  a  kiss 
from  me,  thou  shall  have  it.  And  although  my  mouth  hath  been  heretofore 
as  untouched  as  my  thoughts,  yet  now  to  recover  thy  life  (though  to  restore 
thy  youth  it  be  impossible)  I  will  do  that  to  Endymion  which  yet  never 
mortal  man  could  boast  of  heretofore,  nor  shall  ever  hope  for  hereafter.  {She 
kisses  him.) 

Eumenides.     Madam,  he  beginneth  to  stir. 

Cynthia.     Soft,  Eumenides,  stand  still. 

Eumenides.    Ah  !  I  see  his  eyes  almost  open. 

Cynthia.     I  command  thee  once  again,  stir  not:  I  will  stand  behind  him. 

Panelion.     What  do  I  seel  Endymion  almost  awake  1 

Eumenides.  Endymion,  Endymion,  art  thou  deaf  or  dumb  1  Or  hath  this 
long  sleep  taken  away  thy  memory  1  Ah  !  my  sweet  Endymion,  seest  thou 
not  Eumenides,  tliy  faithful  friend ;  thy  faithful  Eumenides,  who  for  thy  sake 
hath  been  careless  of  his  own  content  1  Spealc,  Endymion!  Endymion! 
Endymion  ! 

Endymion.    Endymion  !  I  call  to  mind  such  a  name. 

Eumenides.  Hast  thou  forgotten  thyself,  Endymion?  Then  do  I  not 
marvel  thou  rememberest  not  thy  friend.  I  tell  thee  thou  art  Endymion,  and 
I  Eumenides.  Behold  also,  Cynthia,  by  whose  favour  thou  art  awaked,  and 
by  whose  virtue  tliou  shalt  continue  thy  natural  course. 

Cynthia.  Endymion !  Speak,  sweet  Endymion  !  knowest  thou  not  Cyn- 
thia! 

Endymion.  Oh  heavens !  whom  do  I  behold  1  Fair  Cynthia,  divine 
Cynthia? 

Cynthia.    I  am  Cynthia,  and  thou  Endymion. 


ON  LYLY,  MARLOWE,  HEY  WOOD,  ETC.  31 

Endymion.  Endymion  !  What  do  1  hear  ^  What !  a  grey-beard,  hollow- 
eyes,  withered  body,  decayed  limbs,  and  all  in  one  night '? 

Eumenides.  One  night!  Thou  hast  slept  here  forty  years,  by  what  en- 
chantress, as  yet  it  is  not  known:  and  behold  the  twig  to  which  thou  laidest 
thy  head,  is  now  become  a  tree,     Callest  thou  not  Eumenides  to  remembrance  ] 

Endymion.  Thy  name  1  do  remember  by  the  sound,  but  thy  favour  I  do 
not  yet  call  to  mind :  only  divine  Cynthia,  to  whom  time,  fortune,  death,  and 
destiny  are  subject,  I  see  and  remember;  and  in  all  humility,  I  regard  and  re- 
verence. 

Cynthia.  You  shall  have  good  cause  to  remember  Eumenides,  who  hath 
for  thy  safety  forsaken  his  own  solace. 

Endymion.  Am  I  that  Endymion,  who  was  wont  in  court  to  lead  my  life, 
and  in  jousts,  tourneys,  and  arms,  to  exercise  my  youth  1   Am  I  that  Endymion? 

Eumenides.  Thou  art  that  Endymion,  and  I  Eumenides:  wilt  thou  not 
j'et  call  me  to  remembrance  1 

Endymion.  Ah !  sweet  Eumenides,  I  now  perceive  thou  art  he,  and  that 
myself  have  tlie  name  of  Endymion  ;  but  that  this  should  be  my  body,  I 
doubt :  for  how  could  my  curled  locks  be  turned  to  grey  hair,  and  my  strong 
body  to  a  dying  weakness,  having  waxed  old,  and  not  knowing  it. 

Cynthia.  Well,  Endymion,  arise:  awhile  sit  down,  for  that  thy  limbs  are 
stiff  and  not  able  to  stay  thee,  and  tell  what  thou  hast  seen  in  thy  sleep  all  this 
while.  What  dreams,  visions,  thoughts,  and  fortunes:  for  it  is  impossible 
but  in  so  long  a  time  thou  shouldst  see  strange  things." 

Act  V.  Scene  1. 

It  does  not  take  away  from  the  pathos  of  this  poetical  allegory 
on  the  chances  of  love  and  the  progress  of  human  life,  that  it 
may  be  supposed  to  glance  indirectly  at  the  conduct  of  Queen 
Elizabeth  to  our  author,  who,  after  fourteen  years'  expectation 
of  the  place  of  Master  of  the  Revels,  was  at  last  disappointed. 
This  princess  took  no  small  delight  in  keeping  her  poets  in  a  sort 
of  Fool's  Paradise.  The  wit  of  Lyly,  in  parts  of  this  romantic 
drama,  seems  to  have  grown  spirited  and  classical  with  his  sub- 
ject. He  puts  this  fine  hyperbolical  irony  in  praise  of  Dipsas, 
(a  most  unamiable  personage,  as  it  will  appear,)  into  the  mouth 
of  Sir  Tophas : 

"  Oh,  what  fine  thin  hair  hath  Dipsas !  What  a  pretty  low  forehead '. 
What  a  tall  and  stately  nose !  What  little  hollow  eyes !  What  great  and 
goodly  lips !  How  harmless  is  she,  being  toothless  I  Her  fingers  fat  and 
short,  adorned  with  long  nails  like  a  bittern !  What  a  low  stature  she  is,  and 
yet  what  a  great  foot  she  carrieth  !  How  thrifty  must  she  be,  in  whom  there 
is  no  waist;  how  virtuous  she  is  like  to  be  over  whom  no  man  can  be 
jealous !"  Act  III.  Scene  3. 


32  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

It  is  singular  that  the  style  of  this  author,  which  is  extremely 
sweet  and  flowing,  should  have  been  the  butt  of  ridicule  to  his 
contemporaries,  particularly  Drayton,  who  compliments  Sydney 
as  the  author  that 

"  Did  first  reduce 
Our  tongue  from  Lyly's  writing,  then  in  use-, 
Talking  of  stones,  stars,  plants,  of  fishes,  flies, 
Playing  with  words  and  idle  similes, 
As  the  English  apes  and  very  zanies  be 
Of  every  thing  that  they  do  hear  and  see." 

Which  must  apply  to  the  prose  style  of  his  work,  called  "  Euphues 
and  his  England,"  and  is  much  more  like  Sir  Philip  Sydney's 
own  manner,  than  the  dramatic  style  of  our  poet.  Besides  the 
passages  above  quoted,  I  might  refer  to  the  opening  speeches  of 
Midas,  and  again  to  the  admirable  contention  between  Pan  and 
Apollo  for  the  palm  of  music. — His  Alexander  and  Campaspe  is 
another  sufficient  answer  to  the  charge.  This  play  is  a  very 
pleasing  transcript  of  old  manners  and  sentiment.  It  is  full  of 
.sweetness  and  point,  of  Attic  salt  and  the  honey  of  Hymettus. 
The  following  song  given  to  Apelles,  would  not  disgrace  the 
mouth  of  the  prince  of  painters : 

*'  Cupid  and  my  Campaspe  play'd 

At  cards  for  kisses,  Cupid  paid  ; 

He  stakes  his  quiver,  bow,  and  arrows: 

His  mother's  doves  and  team  of  sparrows  ; 

Loses  them  too,  then  down  he  throws 

The  coral  of  his  lip,  the  rose 

Growing  on  's  cheek  (but  none  knows  how) 

With  these  the  crystal  of  his  brow 

And  then  the  dimple  of  his  chin  ; 

All  these  did  my  Campaspe  win. 

At  last  he  set  her  both  his  eyes, 

She  won,  and  Cupid  blind  did  rise. 

O,  Love  !  has  she  done  this  to  thee  1 

What  shall,  alas!  become  of  mel" 

The  conclusion  of  this  drama  is  as  follows.     Alexander  ad- 
dressing himself  to  Apelles,  says, 

"  Well,  enjoy  one  another :  I  give  her  thee  frankly,  Apelles.    Thou  shalt 


ON  LYLY,  MARLOWE,  HEYWOOD,  ETC.  33 

see  that  Alexander  m£iketh  but  a  toy  of  love,  and  leadeth  affection  in  fetters : 
using  fancy  as  a  fool  to  make  him  sport,  or  a  minstrel  to  make  him  merry.  It 
is  not  the  amorous  glance  of  an  eye  can  settle  an  idle  thought  in  the  heart:  no, 
no,  it  is  children's  game,  a  life  for  sempsters  and  scholars  ;  the  one,  pricking 
in  clouts,  have  nothing  else  to  tliink  on  ;  the  other  picking  fancies  out  of  books, 
have  little  else  to  marvel  at.  Go,  Apelles,  take  with  you  your  Campaspe ; 
Alexander  is  cloyed  with  looking  on  at  that,  which  thou  wonderest  at. 

ApeUes.  Thanks  to  your  majesty  on  bended  knee;  you  have  honoured 
Apelles. 

Campaspe.     Thanks  with  bowed  heart;  you  have  blessed  Campaspe. 

[Exeunt. 

Alexander.  Page,  go  warn  Clytus  and  Parmenio,  and  the  other  lords,  to  be 
in  readiness;  let  the  tmmpet  sound,  strike  up  the  drum,  and  I  will  presently  into 
Persia.     How  now,  Hephistion,  is  Alexander  able  to  resist  love  as  he  list  1 

HepMstion.  The  conquering  of  Thebes  was  not  so  honourable  as  the  sub- 
duing of  these  thoughts. 

Alexander.  It  were  a  shame  Alexander  should  desii-e  to  command  the 
world,  if  he  could  not  command  himself  But  come,  let  us  go.  And,  good 
Hephistion.  when  all  the  world  is  won,  and  eveiy  country  is  thine  and  mine, 
eitlier  find  me  out  another  to  subdue,  or  on  my  word,  I  will  fall  in  love." 

Marlowe  is  a  name  that  stands  high,  and  ahnost  first  in  this 
list  of  drannatic  worthies.  He  was  a  little  before  Shakspeare's 
time,*  and  has  a  marked  character  both  from  him  and  the  rest. 
There  is  a  lust  of  power  in  his  writings,  a  hunger  and  thirst 
after  unrighteousness,  a  glow  of  the  imagination,  unhallowed  by 
any  thing  but  its  own  energies.  His  thoughts  burn  within  him 
like  a  furnace  with  bickering  flames  :  or  throwing  out  black 
smoke  and  mists,  that  hide  the  dawn  of  genius,  or  like  a  poison- 
ous mineral,  corrode  the  heart.  His  "  Life  and  Death  of  Doctor 
Faustus,"  though  an  imperfect  and  unequal  performance,  is  his 
greatest  work.  Faustus  himself  is  a  rude  sketch,  but  it  is  a 
gigantic  one.  This  character  may  be  considered  as  a  personifi- 
cation of  the  pride  of  will  and  eagerness  of  curiosity,  sublimed 
beyond  the  reach  of  fear  and  remorse.  He  is  hurried  away, 
and,  as  it  were,  devoured  by  a  tormenting  desire  to  enlarge  his 
knowledge  to  the  utmost  bounds  of  nature  and  art,  and  to  extend 
his  power  with  his  knowledge.  He  would  realize  all  the  fictions 
of  a  lawless  imagination,  would  solve  the  most  subtle  speculations 
of  abstract  reason  ]  and  for  this  purpose  sets  at  defiance  all  mortal 

♦  He  died  about  1594. 


34  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

consequences,  and  leagues  himself  with  demoniacal  power,  with 
"  fate  and  metaphysical  aid."  The  idea  of  witchcraft  and  necro- 
mancy, once  the  dread  of  the  vulgar  and  the  darling  of  the  vision- 
ary recluse,  seems  to  have  had  its  origin  in  the  restless  tendency 
of  the  human  mind,  to  conceive  of  and  aspire  to  more  than  it  can 
achieve  by  natural  means,  and  in  the  obscure  apprehension  that 
the  gratification  of  this  extravagant  and  unauthorized  desire  can 
only  be  attained  by  the  sacrifice  of  all  our  ordinary  hopes  and 
better  prospects,  to  the  infernal  agents  that  lend  themselves  to 
its  accomplishment.  Such  is  the  foundation  of  the  present  story. 
Faustus,  in  his  impatience  to  fulfil  at  once  and  for  a  moment,  for 
a  few  short  years,  all  the  desires  and  conceptions  of  his  soul,  is 
willing  to  give  in  exchange  his  soul  and  body  to  the^  great  enemy 
of  mankind.  Whatever  he  fancies,  becomes  by  this  means  pre- 
sent to  his  sense  :  whatever  he  commands,  is  done.  He  calls 
back  time  past,  and  anticipates  the  future  :  the  visions  of  antiquity 
pass  before  him,  Babylon  in  all  its  glory,  Paris  and  (Enone  :  all 
the  projects  of  philosophers,  or  creations  of  the  poet,  pay  tribute 
at  his  fset :  all  the  delights  of  fortune,  of  ambition,  of  pleasure, 
and  of  learning  are  centred  in  his  person  ;  and  from  a  short-lived 
dream  of  supreme  felicity  and  drunken  power,  he  sinks  into  an 
abyss  of  darkness  and  perdition.  This  is  the  alternative  to  which 
he  submits ;  the  bond  which  he  signs  with  his  blood  !  As  the 
outline  of  the  character  is  grand  and  daring,  the  execution  is 
abrupt  and  fearful.  The  thoughts  are  vast  and  irregular;  and 
the  style  halts  and  staggers  under  them,  "  with  uneasy  steps;" — 
"  such  footinjr  found  the  sole  of  unblest  feet."  There  is  a  little 
fustian  and  incongruity  of  metaphor  now  and  then,  which  is  not 
very  injurious  to  the  subject.  It  is  time  to  give  a  few  passages 
in  illustration  of  this  account.  lie  thus  opens  his  mind  at  the 
beginning : 

"  How  am  I  glutted  with  conceit  of  tliis  ! 

Shall  I  make  spirits  fetch  me  what  I  please  1 

Resolve  me  of  all  ambiguities  1 

Perform  what  desperate  enterprize  I  will  1 

I'll  have  them  fly  to  India  for  gold,  ^ 

Ransack  the  ocean  for  orient  pearl, 

And  search  all  corners  of  the  new-found  world 

For  pleasant  fruits  and  princely  delicates. 


ON  LYLY,  MARLOWE,  HEYWOOD,  ETC.  35 

I'll  have  them  read  me  strange  philosophy, 
And  tell  the  secrets  of  all  foreign  kings  : 
I'll  have  them  wall  all  Germany  with  brass. 
And  make  swift  Rhine  circle  fair  Wittenberg; 
I'll  have  them  fill  the  public  schools  with  skill, 
Wherewith  the  students  shall  be  bravely  clad ; 
I'll  levy  soldiers  with  the  coin  they  bring, 
And  chase  the  Prince  of  Parma  from  our  land, 
And  reign  sole  king  of  all  the  provinces: 
Yea,  stranger  engines  for  the  brunt  of  war 
Than  was  the  fiery  keel  at  Antwerp  bridge, 
I'll  make  my  servile  spirit  to  invent. 

Enter  Valdes  and  Cornelius. 
Come,  German  Valdes  and  Cornelius, 
And  make  me  blest  with  your  sage  conference. 
Valdes,  sweet  Valdes,  and  Cornelius, 
Know  that  your  words  have  won  me  at  the  last 
To  practise  magic  and  concealed  arts. 
Philosophy  is  odious  and  obscure ; 
Both  Law  and  Physic  are  for  petty  wits ; 
'Tis  magic,  magic,  that  hath  ravish'd  me. 
Then,  gentle  friends,  aid  me  in  this  attempt ; 
And  I,  that  have  with  subtle  syllogisms 
Gravell'd  the  pastors  of  the  German  church, 
And  made  the  flow'ring  pride  of  Wittenberg 
Swarm  to  my  problems,  as  th'  infernal  spirits 
On  sweet  Musaeus  when  he  came  to  hell ; 
Will  be  as  cunning  as  Agrippa  was. 
Whose  shadow  made  all  Europe  honour  him. 

Valdes.     These  books,  thy  wit,  and  our  experience 
Shall  make  all  nations  to  canonize  us. 
As  Indian  Moors  obey  their  Spanish  lords, 
So  shall  the  spirits  of  eveiy  element 
Be  always  serviceable  to  us  three. 
Like  Lions  shall  they  guard  us  when  we  please ; 
Like  Almain  Rutlers  with  their  horseman's  staves, 
Or  Lapland  giants  trotting  by  our  sides  : 
Sometimes  like  women,  or  unwedded  maids, 
Shadowing  more  beauty  in  their  airy  brows 
Than  have  the  white  breasts  of  the  Glueen  of  Love. 
From  Venice  they  shall  di-ag  whole  argosies, 
And  from  America  the  golden  fleece, 
That  yearly  stuflfs  old  Philip's  treasury* ; 
If  learned  Faustus  will  be  resolute. 

*  An  anachronism. 


36  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

Faustus.    As  resolute  am  I  in  this 
As  thou  to  live,  therefore  object  it  not." 

In  his  colloquy  with  the  fallen  angel,  he  shows  the  fixedness 
of  his  determination  : — 

"  What !  is  great  Mephostophilis  so  passionate 
For  being  deprived  of  the  joys  of  heaven  1 
Leai-n  thou  of  Faustus  manly  fortitude, 
And  scorn  those  joys  thou  never  shalt  possess." 

Yet  we  afterwards  find  him  faltering  in  his  resolution,  and 
struggling  with  the  extremity  of  his  fate  : 

"  My  heart  is  harden'd,  I  cannot  repent: 
Scarce  can  I  name  salvation,  faith,  or  heaven  ; 
Swords,  poisons,  halters,  and  envenom'd  steel 
Are  laid  before  me  to  dispatch  myself; 
And  long  ere  this  I  should  have  done  the  deed, 
Had  not  sweet  pleasure  conquer'd  deep  despair. 
Have  I  not  made  blind  Homer  sing  to  me 
Of  Alexander's  love  and  QEnon's  death  1 
And  hath  not  he  that  built  the  walls  of  Thebes 
With  ravishing  sounds  of  his  melodious  harp, 
Made  music  with  my  Mephostophilis'? 
Why  should  I  die  then  or  basely  despair? 
I  am  resolv'd,  Faustus  shall  not  repent. 
Come,  Mephostophilis,  let  us  dispute  again, 
And  reason  of  divine  astrology." 

There  is  one  passage  more  of  this  kind,  which  is  so  striking 
and  beautiful,  so  like  a  rapturous  and  deeply  passionate  dream, 
that  I  cannot  help  quoting  it  here  :  it  is  the  address  to  the  Appa- 
rition of  Helen. 

Enter  Helen  again,  passing  over  beticecn  iivo  Cupids. 

Faustus.    Was  this  the  face  that  launch'd  a  thousand  ships, 
And  burnt  the  topless  tow'rs  of  Ilium  1 
Sweet  Helen,  make  me  immortal  with  a  kiss. 
Her  lips  suck  forth  my  soul !     See  where  it  flies. 
Come,  Helen,  come,  give  me  my  soul  again. 
Here  will  I  dwell,  for  Hcav'n  is  in  these  lips, 
And  all  is  dross  that  is  not  Helena. 
I  will  be  Paris,  and  for  love  of  thee, 
Instead  of  Troy  shall  Wittenberg  be  sack'd  j 
And  I  will  combat  with  weak  Menelaus, 


ON  LYLY,  MARLOWE,  HEYWOOD,  ETC.  37 

"  ^-"■^"— ~— ■» 

And  wear  thy  colours  on  my  plumed  crest ; 

Yea,  I  will  wound  Achilles  in  the  heel, 

And  then  return  to  Helen  for  a  kiss. 

—Oh !  thou  art  fairer  than  the  evening  air, 
^  Clad  in  the  beauty  of  a  thousand  stars: 

Brighter  art  thou  than  flaming  Jupiter, 

When  he  appeared  to  hapless  Semele ; 

More  lovely  than  the  monarch  of  the  sky 

In  wanton  Arethusa's  azure  arms ; 

And  none  but  thou  shall  be  my  paramour." 

The  ending  of  the  play  is  terrible,  and  his  last  exclamations 
betray  an  anguish  of  mind  and  vehemence  of  passion  not  to  be 
contemplated  without  shuddering  : 

— •'  Oh,  Faustus ! 

Now  hast  thou  but  one  bare  hour  to  live, 

And  then  thou  must  be  damn'd  perpetually. 

Stand  still,  you  ever-moving  spheres  of  heav'n, 

That  time  may  cease,  and  midnight  never  come. 

Fair  nature's  eye,  rise,  rise  again,  and  make 

Perpetual  day ;  or  let  this  hour  be  but  a  year, 

A  month,  a  week,  a  natural  day. 

That  Faustus  may  repent,  and  save  his  soul. 

(  The  Clock  strikes  twelve.') 
It  strikes !  it  strikes !    Now,  body,  turn  to  air, 
Or  Lucifer  will  bear  thee  quick  to  hell. 
Oh  soul !  be  changed  into  small  water-drops, 
And  fall  into  the  ocean ;  ne'er  to  be  found. 

{Thunder.    Enter  the  Devils.) 

Oh !  mercy,  Heav'n !  Look  not  so  fierce  on  me  I 
Adders  and  serpents,  let  me  breathe  awhile  ! — 
Ugly  hell,  gape  not!     Come  not,  Lucifer ! 
I'll  bum  my  books !  Oh !  Mephostophilis." 

Perhaps  the  finest  trait  in  the  whole  play,  and  that  which 
softens  and  subdues  the  horror  of  it,  is  the  interest  taken  by  the 
two  scholars  in  the  fate  of  their  master,  and  their  unavailing  at- 
tempts to  dissuade  him  from  his  relentless  career.  The  regard 
to  learning  is  the  ruling  passion  of  this  drama,  and  its  indica- 
tions are  as  mild  and  amiable  in  them  as  its  ungovemed  pursuit 
hag  been  fatal  to  Faustus. 

"Yet,  for  he  was  a  scholar^once  admir'd 


^38  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

For  wondrous  knowledge  in  our  German  schools, 
We'll  give  his  mangled  Umbs  due  burial ; 
And  all  the  students,  clothed  in  mourning  black, 
Shall  wait  upon  his  heavy  funered." 

So  the  Chorus : 

"  Cut  is  the  branch  that  might  have  grown  full  strait, 

And  burned  is  Apollo's  laurel  bough, 

That  sometime  grew  within  this  leaurned  man." 

And  still  more  affecting  are  his  own  conflicts  of  mind  and 
agonizing  doubts  on  this  subject  just  before,  when  he  exclaims 
to  his  friends :  "  Oh,  gentlemen  !  Hear  me  with  patience,  and 
tremble  not  at  my  speeches.  Though  my  heart  pant  and  quiver 
to  remember  that  I  have  been  a  student  here  these  thirty  years ; 
oh  !  would  I  had  never  seen  Wittenberg,  never  read  book  !"  A 
finer  compliment  was  never  paid,  nor  a  finer  lesson  ever  read  to 
the  pride  of  learning.  The  intermediate  comic  parts,  in  which 
Faustus  is  not  directly  concerned,  are  mean  and  grovelling  to 
the  last  degree.  One  of  the  Clowns  says  to  another,  "  Snails  I 
what  hast  got  there  ?  A  book  ?  Why  thou  can'st  not  tell  ne'er 
a  word  on't."  Indeed,  the  ignorance  and  barbarism  of  the  time, 
as  here  described,  might  almost  justify  Faustus's  overstrained 
admiration  of  learning,  and  turn  the  heads  of  those  who  pos- 
sessed it  from  novelty  and  unaccustomed  excitement,  as  the  In- 
dians are  made  drunk  with  wine  !  Goethe,  the  German  poet, 
has  written  a  drama  on  this  tradition  of  his  country,  which  is 
considered  a  master-piece.  I  cannot  find  in  Marlowe's  play, 
any  proofs  of  the  atheism  or  impiety  attributed  to  him.  unless  the 
belief  in  witchcraft  and  the  Devil  can  be  regarded  as  such  ;  and 
at  the  time  he  wrote,  not  to  have  believed  in  both  would  have 
been  construed  into  the  rankest  atheism  and  irreligion.  There 
is  a  delight,  as  Mr.  Lamb  says,  "  in  dallying  with  interdicted 
subjects;"  but  that  does  not,  by  any  means,  imply  either  a 
practical  or  speculative  disbelief  of  them. 

'Lust's  Dominion,  or  The  Lascivious  Queen,*  is  referable 
to  the  same  general  style  of  writing ;  and  is  a  striking  picture, 
or  rather  caricature  of  the  unrestrained  love  of  power,  not  as 


ON  LYLY,  MARLOWE,  HEYWOOD,  ETC.  39 

connected  with  learning,  but  with  regal  ambition  and  external 
sway.  There  is  a  good  deal  of  the  same  intense  passion,  the 
same  recklessness  of  purpose,  the  same  smouldering  fire  within : 
but  there  is  not  any  of  the  same  relief  to  the  mind  in  the  lofty 
imaginative  nature  of  the  subject,  and  the  continual  repetition 
of  plain  practical  villainy  and  undigested  horrors  disgusts  the 
sense  and  blunts  the  interest.  The  mind  is  hardened  into  obdu- 
racy, not  melted  into  sympathy,  by  such  barefaced  and  barbar- 
ous cruelty.  Eleazar,  the  Moor,  is  such  another  character  as 
Aaron  in  'Titus  Andronicus;'  and  this  play  might  be  set  down 
without  injustice  as  "  pew-fellow"  to  that.  I  should  think  Mar- 
lowe has  a  much  fairer  claim  to  be  the  author  of  'Titus  Andro- 
nicus' than  Shakspeare,  at  least  from  internal  evidence ;  and^the 
argument  of  Schlegel,  that  it  must  have  been  Shakspeare's,  be- 
cause there  was  no  one  else  capable  of  producing  either  its  faults 
or  beauties,  fails  in  each  particular.  The  Queen  is  the  same 
character  in  both  these  plays,  and  the  business  of  the  plot  is  car- 
ried on  in  much  the  same  revolting  manner,  by  making  the 
nearest  friends  and  relatives  of  the  wretched  victims  the  instru- 
ments of  their  sufferings  and  persecution  by  an  arch-villain.  To 
show,  however,  that  the  same  strong-braced  tone  of  passionate 
declamation  is  kept  up,  take  the  speech  of  Eleazer  on  refusing 
the  proffered  crown : 

"  What,  do  none  rise  1 
No,  no,  for  kings  indeed  are  deities. 
And  who'd  not  (as  the  sun)  in  brightness  shine  1 
To  be  the  greatest  is  to  be  divine. 
Who  among  millions  would  not  be  the  mightiest'? 
To  sit  in  godlike  state ;  to  have  all  eyes 
Dazzled  with  admiration,  and  all  tongues 
Shouting  loud  prayers ;  to  rob  every  heart 
Of  love  ;  to  have  the  strength  of  every  arm  ; 
A  sovereign's  name,  why  'tis  a  sovereign  charm. 
This  glory  round  about  me  hath  thrown  beams : 
I  have  stood  upon  the  top  of  fortune's  wheel. 
And  backwards  turned  the  iron  screw  of  fate. 
The  destinies  have  spun  a  silken  thread 
About  my  life;  yet  thus  I  cast  aside 
The  shape  of  Majesty,  and  on  my  knee 
To  this  Imperial  state  lowly  resign 


40  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

This  usurpation ;  wiping  off  your  fears 
Which  struck  so  hard  upon  me." 

This  is  enough  to  show  the  unabated  vigour  of  the  author's 
style.  This  strain  is  certainly  doing  justice  to  the  pride  of  am- 
bition,  and  the  imputed  majesty  of  kings. 

We  have  heard  much  of  "  Marlowe's  mighty  line,"  and  this 
play  furnishes  frequent  instances  of  it.  There  are  a  number  of 
single  lines  that  seem  struck  out  in  the  heat  of  a  glowing  fancy, 
and  leave  a  track  of  golden  fire  behind  them.  The  following 
are  a  few  that  might  be  given. 

"  I  know  he  is  not  dead;  I  know  proud  death 
Durst  not  behold  such  sacred  majesty." 
f  *  *  *  * 

"  Hang  both  your  greedy  ears  upon  my  lips, 
Let  them  devour  my  speech,  suck  in  my  breath." 
***** 

"  From  discontent  grows  treason, 

And  on  the  stalk  of  treason  death." 

*  *  *  *  « 

"  Tyrants  swim  safest  in  a  crimson  flood.", 

*  *  ♦  *  » 

The  two  following  lines — 

"  Oh!  I  grow  dull,  and  the  cold  hand  of  sleep ^ 
Hath  thrust  his  icy  fingers  in  my  breast" — 

are  the  same  as  those  in  King  John — 

"  And  none  of  you  will  bid  the  winter  come 
To  thrust  his  icy  fingers  in  my  maw." 

And  again  the  Moor's  exclamation : 

"  Now  by  the  proud  complexion  of  my  cheeks, 
Ta'en  from  the  kisses  of  the  amorous  sun" — 

is  the  same  as  Cleopatra's — 

"  But  I  that  am  with  Phoebus'  amorous  pinches  black,"  &c. 

Eleazer's  sarcasm, 


ON  LYLY,  MARLOWE,  HEYWOOD,  ETC.  41 


"  These  dignities, 

Like  poison,  make  men  swell ;  this  rat's-bane  honour, 
Oh,  'tis  so  sweet !  they'll  lick  it  till  they  burst" — 

shows  the  utmost  virulence  of  smothered  spleen ;  and  his  con- 
cluding strain  of  malignant  exultation  has  been  but  tamely  imi- 
tated by  Young's  Zanga  : 

"  Now,  tragedy,  thou  minion  of  the  night, 
Rhamnusia's  pew-fellow,*  to  thee  I'll  sing, 
Upon  a  harp  made  of  dead  Spanish  bones. 
The  proudest  instrument  the  world  affords : 
To  thee  that  never  blushest,  though  thy  cheeks 
Are  full  of  blood,  O  Saint  Revenge,  to  thee 
I  consecrate  my  murders,  all  my  stabs,"  &c. 

It  may  be  worth  while  to  observe,  for  the  sake  of  the  curious, 
that  many  of  Marlowe's  most  sounding  lines  consist  of  monosylla- 
bles, or  nearly  so.  The  repetition  of  Eleazer's  taunt  to  the  Car- 
dinal, retorting  his  own  words  upon  him,  "  Spaniard  or  Moor, 
the  saucy  slave  shall  die" — may  perhaps  have  suggested  Fal- 
conbridge's  spirited  reiteration  of  the  phrase,  "  And  hang  a 
calfs  skin  on  those  recreant  limbs." 

I  do  not  think  '  The  Rich  Jew  of  Malta'  so  characteristic  a 
specimen  of  this  writer's  powers.  It  has  not  the  same  fierce 
glow  of  passion  or  expression.  It  is  extreme  in  act,  and  outrage- 
ous  in  plot  and  catastrophe  ;  but  it  has  not  the  same  vigorous 
filling  up.  The  author  seems  to  have  relied  on  the  horror  in- 
spired by  the  subject,  and  the  national  disgust  excited  against 
the  principal  character,  to  rouse  the  feelings  of  the  audience  :  for 
the  rest,  it  is  a  tissue  of  gratuitous,  unprovoked,  and  incredible 
atrocities,  which  are  committed,  one  upon  the  back  of  the  other, 
by  the  parties  concerned,  without  motive,  passion  or  object. 
There  are,  notwithstanding,  some  striking  passages  in  it,  as  Ba- 
rabbas's  description  of  the  bravo,  Philia  Borzof ;  the  relation  of 

*  This  expression  seems  to  be  ridiculed  by  FalstafF. 
t  "  He  sent  a  shaggy,  tattered,  staring  slave, 
That  when  he  speaks  draws  out  his  grisly  beard, 
And  winds  it  twice  or  thrice  about  his  ear; 
Whose  face  has  been  a  grindstone  for  men's  swords : 
4 


42  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

his  own  unaccountable  villanies  to  Ithamore  ;  his  rejoicing  ovc 
his  recovered  jewels  "  as  the  morning  lark  sings  over  her  young  ;" 
and  the  backwardness  he  declares  in  himself  to  forgive  the  Chris- 
tian injuries  that  are  offered  him,*  which  may  have  given  the 
idea  of  one  of  Shylock's  speeches,  where  he  ironically  disclaims 
any  enmity  to  the  merchants  on  the  same  account.  It  is  per- 
haps hardly  fair  to  compare  the  Jew  of  Malta  with  the  Merchant 
of  Venice  ;  for  it  is  evident  that  Shakspeare's  genius  shows  to  as 
much  advantage  in  knowledge  of  character,  in  variety,  and  stage- 
effect,  as  it  does  in  point  of  general  humanity. 
V      Edward  II.  is,  according  to  the  modern  standard  of  composi- 

His  hands  are  hack'd,  some  fingers  cut  quite  off, 

Who  when  he  speaks,  grunts  hke  a  hog,  and  looks 

Like  one  that  is  employed  in  catzerie, 

And  cross-biting ;  such  a  rogue 

As  is  the  husband  to  a  hundred  whores; 

And  I  by  him  must  send  three  hundred  crowns." 

AUIV. 

•  "  In  spite  of  these  swine-eating  Christians 
(Unchosen  nation,  never  circumcised  ; 
Such  poor  villains  as  were  ne'er  thought  upon, 
Till  Titus  and  Vespasian  conquer'd  us) 
Am  I  become  as  wealthy  as  I  am. 
They  hoped  my  daughter  would  have  been  a  nun  ; 
But  she's  at  home,  and  I  have  bought  a  house 
As  great  and  flxir  as  is  the  Governor's: 
And  there,  in  spite  of  Malta,  will  I  dwell, 
Having  Femeze's  hand  ;  whose  heart  I'll  have, 
Ay,  and  his  son's  too,  or  it  shall  go  hard. 

"  I  am  not  of  the  tribe  of  Levi,  I, 
That  can  so  soon  forget  an  injury. 
We  Jews  can  fawn  like  spaniels  when  we  please ; 
And  when  we  grin  we  bite  ;  yet  are  our  looks 
As  innocent  and  harmless  as  a  lamb's. 
I  learn'd  in  Florence  how  to  kiss  my  hand. 
Heave  up  my  shoulders  when  they  call  me  dog, 
And  duck  as  low  as  any  bare-foot  Friar  : 
Hoping  to  see  them  starve  upon  a  stall, 
Or  else  be  gather'd  for  in  our  synagogue, 
That  when  the  offering  bason  comes  to  me, 
Even  for  charity  I  may  spit  into  it." 


ON  LYLY,  MARLOWE,  HEYWOOD,  ETC.  43 


tion,  Marlowe's  best  play.  It  is  written  with  few  offences  against 
the  common  rules,  and  in  a  succession  of  smooth  and  flowing 
lines.  The  poet  however  succeeds  less  in  the  voluptuous  and 
effeminate  descriptions  which  he  here  attempts,  than  in  the  more 
dreadful  and  violent  bursts  of  passion.  Edward  II.  is  drawn  with 
historic  truth,  but  without  much  dramatic  effect.  The  manage- 
ment of  the  plot  is  feeble  and  desultory  ;  little  interest  is  excited 
in  the  various  turns  of  fate ;  the  characters  are  too  worthless, 
have  too  little  energy,  and  their  punishment  is,  in  general,  too 
well  deserved  to  excite  our  commiseration  ;  so  that  this  play  will 
bear,  on  the  whole,  but  a  distant  comparison  with  Shakspeare's 
Richard  II.  in  conduct,  power,  or  effect.  But  the  death  of  Ed- 
ward II.,  in  Marlowe's  tragedy,  is  certainly  superior  to  that  of 
Shakspeare's  King  ;  and  in  heart-breaking  distress,  and  the  sense 
of  human  weakness,  claiming  pity  from  utter  helplessness  and 
conscious  misery,  is  not  surpassed  by  any  writer  whatever. 

"  Edward.  Weep'st  thou  already*?  List  awhile  to  me, 
And  then  thy  heart,  were  it  as  Gurney's  is, 
Or  as  Matrevis,  hewn  from  the  Caucasus, 
Yet  will  it  melt  ere  I  have  done  my  tale. 
This  dungeon  where  they  keep  me,  is  the  sink 
Wherein  the  filth  of  all  the  castle  falls. 

Lightborn.  Oh  villains. 

Edward.  And  here  in  mire  and  puddle  have  I  stood 
This  ten  days'  space  ;  and  lest  that  I  should  sleep, 
One  plays  continually  upon  a  drum. 
They  give  me  bread  and  water,  being  a  king; 
So  that,  for  want  of  sleep  and  sustenance, 
My  mind's  distemper'd,  and  my  body's  numb'd : 
And  whether  I  have  limbs  or  no,  I  know  not. 
Oh  !  would  my  blood  drop  out  from  every  vein, 
As  doth  this  water  from  my  tatter'd  robes ! 
Tell  Isabel,  the  Glueen,  I  look'd  not  thus, 
When  for  her  sake  I  ran  at  tilt  in  France, 
And  there  unhors'd  the  Duke  of  Cleremont.'' 

There  are  some  excellent  passages  scattered  up  and  down. 
The  description  of  the  King  and  Gaveston  looking  out  of  the 
palace  window,  and  laughing  at  the  courtiers  as  they  pass,  and 
that  of  the  different  spirit  shown  by  the  lion  and  the  forest  deer, 


44  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

>vwhen  wounded,  are  among  the  best.  The  song  "Come  live 
with  me  and  be  my  love,"  to  which  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  wrote  an 
answer,  is  Marlowe's. 

Heywood  I  shall  mention  next,  as  a  direct  contrast  to  Mar- 
lowe in  everything  but  the  smoothness  of  his  verse.  As  Mar- 
lowe's imagination  glows  like  a  furnace,  Heywood's  is  a  gentle, 
lambent  flame,  that  purifies  without  consuming.  His  manner  is 
simplicity  itself.  There  is  nothing  supernatural,  nothing  start- 
ling, or  terrific.  He  makes  use  of  the  commonest  circumstances 
of  every-day  life,  and  of  the  easiest  tempers,  to  show  the  work- 
ings, or  rather  the  ineflicacy  of  the  passions,  the  vis  inertuB  of 
tragedy.  His  incidents  strike  from  their  very  familiarity,  and 
the  distresses  he  paints  invite  our  sympathy  from  the  calmness 
and  resignation  with  which  they  are  borne.  The  pathos  might 
be  deemed  purer  from  its  having  no  mixture  of  turbulence  or 
vindictiveness  in  it ;  and  in  proportion  as  the  sufferers  are  made 
to  deserve  a  better  fate.  In  the  midst  of  the  most  untoward  re- 
verses and  cutting  injuries,  good  nature  and  good  sense  keep  their 
accustomed  sway.  He  describes  men's  errors  with  tenderness, 
and  their  duties  only  with  zeal,  and  the  heightenings  of  a  poetic 
fancy.  His  style  is  equally  natural,  simple,  and  unconstrained. 
The  dialogue  (bating  the  verse)  is  such  as  might  be  uttered  in 
ordinary  conversation.  It  is  beautiful  prose  put  into  heroic  mea- 
sure.  It  is  not  so  much  that  he  uses  the  common  English  idiom 
for  everything  (for  that  I  think  the  most  poetical  and  impassioned 
of  our  elder  dramatists  do  equally),  but  the  simplicity  of  the  cha- 
racters and  the  equable  flow  of  the  sentiments  do  not  require  or 
suffer  it  to  be  warped  from  the  tone  of  level  speaking,  by  figura- 
tive expressions,  or  hyperbolical  allusions.  A  few  scattered  ex- 
ceptions occur  now  and  then,  where  the  hectic  flush  of  passion 
forces  them  from  the  lips,  and  they  are  not  the  worse  for  being 
rare.  Thus,  in  the  play  called  '  A  Woman  Killed  with  Kind- 
ness/ Wendoll,  when  reproached  by  Mrs.  Frankford  with  his 
obligations  to  her  husband,  interrupts  her  hastily,  by  saying 

"  Oh  speak  no  more ! 

For  more  than  this  I  know,  and  have  recorded 
Within  the  red-leaved  table  of  my  heart." 


ON  LYLY,  MARLOWE,  HEYWOOD,  ETC.  45 

And  further  on,  Frankford,  when  doubting  his  wife's  fidelity,  says, 
with  less  feeling  indeed,  but  with  much  elegance  of  fancy, 

L  "  Cold  drops  of  sweat  sit  dangling  on  my  hairs, 
Like  morning  dew  upon  the  golden  flow'rs." 

So  also,  when  returning  to  his  house  at  midnight  to  make  the 
fatal  discovery,  he  exclaims, 

"  Astonishment, 

Fear,  and  amazement,  beat  upon  my  heart, 
Even  as  a  madman  beats  upon  a  drum." 

It  is  the  reality  of  things  present  to  their  imaginations  that 
makes  these  writers  so  fine,  so  bold,  and  yet  so  true  in  what  they 
describe.  Nature  lies  open  to  them  like  a  book,  and  was  not  to 
them  "  invisible,  or  dimly  seen"  through  a  veil  of  words  and 
filmy  abstractions.  Such  poetical  ornaments  are  however  to  be 
met  with  at  considerable  intervals  in  this  play,  and  do  not  disturb 
the  calm  serenity  and  domestic  simplicity  of  the  author's  style. 
The  conclusion  of  Wendoll's  declaration  of  love  to  Mrs.  Frank- 
ford  may  serve  as  an  illustration  of  its  general  merits,  both  as  to 
purity  of  thought  and  diction  : 

"  Fair,  and  of  all  beloved,  I  was  not  fearful 

Bluntly  to  give  my  life  into  your  hand, 

And  at  one  hazard,  all  my  earthly  means. 

Go,  tell  your  husband :  he  will  turn  me  off. 

And  I  am  then  undone.     I  care  not,  I ; 

'Twas  for  your  sake.     Perchance  in  rage  he'll  kill  me; 

I  care  not ;  'twas  for  you.     Say  I  incur 

The  general  name  of  villain  through  the  world, 

Of  traitor  to  my  friend  :  I  care  not,  I ; 

Poverty,  shame,  death,  scandal,  and  reproach, 

For  you  I'll  hazard  all :  why  what  care  1 1 

For  you  1  love,  and  for  your  love  I'll  die." 

The  affecting  remonstrance  of  Frankford  to  his  wife,  and  her 
repentant  agony  at  parting  with  him,  are  already  before  the  pub- 
lic, in  Mr.  Lamb's  Specimens.  The  winding  up  of  this  play  is 
rather  awkwardly  managed,  and  the  moral  is,  according  to  es- 
tablished usage,  equivocal.  It  required  only  Frankford's  recon- 
ciliation to  his  wife,  as  well  as  his  forgiveness  of  her,  for  the 


46  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

highest  breach  of  matrimonial  duty,  to  have  made  a  '  Woman 
Killed  with  Kindness,'  a  complete  anticipation  of  the  'Stranger.' 
Heywood,  however,  was  in  that  respect  but  half  a  Kotzebue  ' — 
The  view  here  given  of  country  manners  is  truly  edifying.  As 
to  the  higher  walk  of  tragedy,  we  see  the  manners  and  moral 
sentiments  of  kings  and  nobles  of  former  times,  here  we  have 
the  feuds  and  amiable  qualities  of  country  'squires  and  their  re- 
o  latives ;  and  such  as  were  the  rulers,  such  were  their  subjects. 
The  frequent  quarrels  and  ferocious  habits  of  private  life  are 
well  exposed  in  the  fatal  rencounter  between  Sir  Francis  Acton 
and  Sir  Charles  Mountford  about  a  hawking  match,  in  the  ruin 
and  rancorous  persecution  of  the  latter  in  consequence,  and  in 
the  hard,  unfeeling,  cold-blooded  treatment  he  receives  in  his 
distress  from  his  own  relations,  and  from  a  fellow  of  the  name 
of  Shafton.  After  reading  the  sketch  of  this  last  character,  who 
is  introduced  as  a  mere  ordinary  personage,  the  representative 
of  a  class,  without  any  preface  or  apology,  no  one  can  doubt  the 
credibility  of  that  of  Sir  Giles  Overreach,  who  is  professedly 
held  up  (I  should  think  almost  unjustly)  as  a  prodigy  of  grasping 
and  hardened  selfishness.  The  influence  of  philosophy  and  pre- 
valence of  abstract  reasoning,  if  it  has  done  nothing  for  our 
poetry,  has  done,  I  should  hope,  something  for  our  manners. 
The  callous  declaration  of  one  of  these  unconscionable  churls, 

"  This  is  no  world  in  which  to  pity  men," 

might  have  been  taken  as  a  motto  for  the  good  old  times  in  gen- 
eral, and  with  a  very  few  reservations,  if  Heywood  has  not 
grossly  libelled  them. — Heywood's  plots  have  little  of  artifice 
or  regularity  of  design  to  recommend  them.  He  writes  on  care- 
lessly, as  it  happens,  and  trusts  to  Nature,  and  a  certain  happy 
tranquillity  of  spirit,  for  gaining  the  favour  of  the  audience.  He 
is  said,  besides  attending  to  his  duties  as  an  actor,  to  have  com- 
posed regularly  a  sheet  a  day.  This  may  account  in  some  mea- 
sure for  the  unembarrassed  facility  of  his  style.  His  own  ac- 
count makes  the  number  of  his  writings  for  the  stage,  or  those 
in  which  he  had  a  main  hand,  upwards  of  two  hundred.  In 
fact,  I  do  not  wonder  at  any  quantity  that  an  author  is  said 


ON  LYLY,  MARLOWE,  HEYWOOD,  ETC.  47 

to  have  written ;  for  the  more  a  man  writes,  the  more  he  can 
write. 

The  same  remarks  will  apply,  with  certain  modifications,  to 
other  remaining  works  of  this  writer,  the  '  Royal  King  and 
Loyal  Subject,'  '  A  Challenge  for  Beauty,'  and  '  The  English 
Traveller.'  The  barb  of  misfortune  is  sheathed  in  the  mildness 
of  the  writer's  temperament,  and  the  story  jogs  on  very  comfort- 
ably, without  effort  or  resistance,  to  the  euthanasia  of  the  catas- 
trophe. In  two  of  these  the  person  principally  aggrieved  sur- 
vives, and  feels  himself  none  the  worse  for  it.  The  most  splen- 
did passage  in  Heywood's  comedies  is  the  account  of  Shipwreck 
by  Drink,  in  '  The  English  Traveller,'  which  was  the  founda- 
tion of  Cowley's  Latin  poem,  Naufragium  Joculare. 

The  names  of  Middleton  and  Rowley,  with  which  I  shall  con- 
clude this  Lecture,  generally  appear  together  as  two  writers  who 
frequently  combined  their  talents  in  the  production  of  joint 
pieces.  Middleton  (judging  from  their  separate  works)  was 
"  the  more  potent  spirit"  of  the  two ;  but  they  were  neither  of 
them  equal  to  some  others.  Rowley  appears  to  have  excelled 
in  describing  a  certain  amiable  quietness  of  disposition  and  dis- 
interested tone  of  morality,  carried  almost  to  a  paradoxical  ex- 
cess, as  in  his  '  Fair  Quarrel,'  and  in  the  comedy  of  '  A  Wo- 
man never  Vexed,'  which  is  written  in  many  parts,  with  a 
pleasing  simplicity  and  naivete  equal  to  the  novelty  of  the  con- 
ception. Middleton's  style  was  not  marked  by  any  peculiar 
quality  of  his  own,  but  was  made  up,  in  equal  proportions,  of 
the  faults  and  excellences  common  to  his  contemporaries.  In 
his  '  Women  beware  Women,'  there  is  a  rich  marrowy  vein  of 
internal  sentiment,  with  fine  occasional  insight  into  human  na- 
ture, and  cool  cutting  irony  of  expression.  He  is  lamentably 
deficient  in  the  plot  and  denouement  of  the  story.  It  is  like  the 
rough  draught  of  a  tragedy,  with  a  number  of  fine  things  thrown 
in,  and  the  best  made  use  of  first ;  but  it  tends  to  no  fixed  goal, 
and  the  interest  decreases,  instead  of  increasing  as  we  read  on, 
for  want  of  previous  arrangement  and  an  eye  to  the  whole.  We 
have  fine  studies  of  heads,  a  piece  of  richly  coloured  drapery, 
"  a  foot,  an  hand,  an  eye  from  Nature  drawn,  that's  worth  a  his- 
tory ;"  but  the  groups  are  ill  disposed,  nor  are  the  figures  pro 


48  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

portioned  to  each  other  or  the  size  of  the  canvas.  The  author's 
power  is  in  the  subject,  not  over  it ;  or  he  is  in  possession  of  ex- 
cellent materials,  which  he  husbands  very  ill.  This  character, 
though  it  applies  more  particularly  to  Middleton,  might  be  ap- 
plied generally  to  the  age.  Shakspeare  alone  seemed  to  stand 
over  his  work,  and  to  do  what  he  pleased  with  it.  He  saw  to 
the  end  of  what  he  was  about,  and  with  the  same  faculty  of 
lending  himself  to  the  impulses  of  Nature  and  the  impression  of 
the  moment,  never  forgot  that  he  himself  had  a  task  to  perform, 
nor  the  place  which  each  figure  ought  to  occupy  in  his  general 
design. — The  characters  of  Livia,  of  Brancha,  of  Leantio  and 
his  mother,  in  the  play  of  which  I  am  speaking,  are  all  admira- 
bly  drawn.  The  art  and  malice  of  Livia  show  equal  want  of 
principle  and  acquaintance  with  the  world ;  and  the  scene  in 
which  she  holds  the  mother  in  suspense,  while  she  betrays  the 
daughter  into  the  power  of  the  profligate  duke,  is  a  master-piece 
of  dramatic  skill.  The  proneness  of  Brancha  to  tread  the  prim- 
rose path  of  pleasure,  after  she  has  made  the  first  false  step,  and 
her  sudden  transition  from  unblemished  virtue  to  the  most  aban- 
doned vice,  in  which  she  is  notably  seconded  by  her  mother-in- 
law's  ready  submission  to  the  temptations  of  wealth  and  power, 
ibrm  a  true  and  striking  picture.  The  first  intimation  of  the  in- 
trigue that  follows,  is  given  in  a  way  that  is  not  a  little  remark- 
able for  simplicity  and  acuteness.     Brancha  says, 

*'  Did  not  the  duke  look  up  1    Methought  he  saw  us.'' 

To  which  the  more  experienced  mother  answers, 

"  That's  every  one's  conceit  that  sees  a  dukej 
If  he  look  stedfastly,  he  looks  straight  at  them, 
When  he.  perhaps,  good  careful  gentleman, 
Never  minds  any,  but  the  look  he  casts 
Is  at  his  own  intentions,  and  his  object 
Only  the  public  good." 

It  turns  out,  however,  that  he  had  been  looking  at  them,  and 
not  "at  the  public  good."  The  moral  of  this  tragedy  is  rendered 
more  impressive  from  the  manly,  independent  character  of  Lean- 
tio in  the  first  instance,  and  \he  manner  in  which  he  dwells,  in  a 
sort  of  doting  abstraction,  on  his  own  comforts,  of  being  possessed 


ON  LYLY,  MARLOWE,  HEYWOOD,  ETC.  49 

of  a  beautiful  and  faithful  wife.  As  he  approaches  his  own 
house,  and  already  treads  on  the  brink  of  perdition,  he  exclaims 
with  an  exuberance  of  satisfaction  not  to  be  restrained — 

"  How  near  am  I  to  a  happiness 
That  earth  exceeds  not !  not  another  like  it : 
''The  treasures  of  the  deep  are  not  so  precious, 
As  are  the  concealed  comforts  of  a  man 
Lock'd  up  in  woman's  lover  I  scent  the  air 
Of  blessings  when  I  come  but  near  the  house: 
What  a  delicious  breath  marriage  sends  forth ! 
The  violet  bed's  not  sweeter.     Honest  wedlock 
Is  like  a  banqueting  house  built  in  a  garden, 
On  which  the  spring's  chaste  flowers  take  delight 
To  cast  their  modest  odours ;  when  base  lust, 
With  all  her  powders,  paintings,  and  best  pride, 
Is  but  a  fair  house  built  by  a  ditch  side. 
When  I  behold  a  glorious  dangerous  strumpet. 
Sparkling  in  beauty  and  destruction  too. 
Both  at  a  twinkling,  I  do  liken  straight 
Her  beautified  body  to  a  goodly  temple 
That's  built  on  vaults  where  carcases  lie  rotting ; 
And  so  by  little  and  little  I  shrink  back  again, 
And  quench  desire  with  a  cool  meditation ; 
And  I'm  as  well,  methinks.     Now  for  a  welcome 
Able  to  draw  men's  envies  upon  man  : 
A  kiss  now  that  will  hang  upon  my  lip, 
V  As  sweet  as  morning  dew  upon  a  rose. 
And  full  as  long ;  after  a  five  days'  fast 
She'll  be  so  greedy  now  and  cling  about  me : 
I  take  care  how  I  shall  be  rid  of  her: 
And  here  't  begins," 

This  dream  is  dissipated  by  the  entrance  of  Brancha  and  his 
Mother. 

"  Bran.    Oh,  sir,  you're  welcome  home. 

Moth.     Oh,  is  he  come  1  I  am  glad  on't 

Lean.    {Aside.)    Is  that  alH 
Why  this  is  dreadful  now  as  sudden  death 
To  some  rich  man  that  flatters  all  his  sins 
With  promise  of  repentance  when  he's  old, 
And  dies  in  the  midway  before  he  comes  to  't 
Sure  you're  not  well,  Brancha !  how  dost,  prithee  ? 

Bran.    I  have  been  better  than  I  am  at  this  time. 

Lean.    Alas,  I  thought  so. 


THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 


Bran.    Nay,  I  have  been  worse  too, 
Than  now  you  see  me,  sir. 

Lean.     I'm  glad  thou  mend'st  yet, 
I  feel  my  heart  mend  too.     How  came  it  to  thee  1 
Has  any  thing  dislik'd  thee  in  my  absence  1 

Bran.    No,  certain,  I  have  had  the  best  content 
That  Florence  can  afford. 

Lean.    Thou  makest  the  best  on't: 
Speak,  mother,  what's  the  cause  1  you  must  needs  know. 

Moth.     Troth,  I  know  none,  son;  let  her  speak  herself; 
Unless  it  be  the  same  gave  Lucifer  a  tumbling  cast ;  that's  pride. 

Bran.    Methinks  this  house  stands  nothing  to  my  mind; 
I'd  have  some  pleasant  lodging  i'  th'  high  street,  sir; 
Or  if 'twere  near  the  court,  sir,  that  were  much  better; 
'Tis  a  sweet  recreation  for  a  gentlewoman 
To  stand  in  a  bay-window,  and  see  gallants. 

Lean.    Now  I  have  another  temper,  a  mere  stranger 
To  that  of  yours,  it  seems;  I  should  delight 
To  see  none  but  yourself 

Bran.     I  praise  not  that ; 
Too  fond  is  as  unseemly  as  too  churlish  ; 
I  would  not  have  a  husband  of  that  proneness, 
To  kiss  me  before  company,  for  a  world ; 
Besides,  'tis  tedious  to  see  one  thing  still,  sir. 
Be  it  the  best  that  ever  heart  affected  ; 
Nay,  wer't  yourself,  whose  love  had  power  you  know 
To  bring  me  from  my  friends,  I  would  not  stand  thus, 
And  gaze  upon  you  always ;  troth,  I  could  not,  sir; 
As  good  be  blind,  and  have  no  use  of  sight, 
As  look  on  one  thing  still :  what's  the  eye's  treasure, 
But  change  of  objects  "?     You  are  learned,  sir, 
And  know  I  speak  not  ill ;  'tis  full  as  virtuous 
For  woman's  eye  to  look  on  several  men, 
As  for  her  heart,  sir,  to  be  fixed  on  one. 

Lean.     Now,  thou  com'st  home  to  me ;  a  kiss  for  that  word. 

Bran.     No  matter  for  a  kiss,  sir;  let  it  pass; 
'Tis  but  a  toy,  we'll  not  so  much  as  mind  it; 
Let's  talk  of  other  business,  and  forget  it. 
What  news  now  of  the  pirates'?  any  stirring  1 
Prithee  discourse  a  little. 

Moth.     (Aside.)     I'm  glad  he's  here  yet. 
To  see  her  tricks  himself;  I  had  lied  monstrously 
If  I  had  told  'em  first. 

Lean.     Speak,  what's  the  humour,  sweet, 
You  make  your  lips  so  strange  1     This  was  not  wont 

Bran.     Is  there  no  kindness  betwixt  man  and  wife, 
Unless  they  make  a  pigeon-house  of  friendship, 


ON  LYLY,  MARLOWE,  HEY  WOOD,  ETC.  51 

And  be  still  billing  1  'Tis  the  idlest  fondness 
That  ever  was  invented  j  and  'tis  pity- 
It's  grown  a  fashion  for  poor  gentlewomen ; 
There's  many  a  disease  kiss'd  in  a  year  by't. 
And  a  French  court'sy  made  to't.     Alas,  sir, 
Think  of  the  world,  how  we  shall  live,  grow  serious; 
We  have  been  married  a  whole  fortnight  now. 

Lean.     Howl  a  whole  fortnight !  why,  is  that  so  long  1 

Bran.    'Tis  time  to  leave  off  dalliance;  'tis  a  doctrine 
Of  your  own  teaching,  if  you  be  remember'd. 
And  I  was  bound  to  obey  it. 

3Iolh.     {Aside.)     Here's  one  fits  him; 
This  was  well  catch'd  i'  faith,  son,  like  a  fellow 
That  rids  another  country  of  a  plague. 
And  brings  it  home  with  him  to  his  own  house. 

[A  tnessenger  from  the  Duke  knocks  within. 
Who  knocks  1 

Lean.     Who's  there  now'?    Withdraw  you,  Brancha; 
Thou  art  a  gem  no  stranger's  eye  must  see, 
Howe'er  thou'rt  pleas'd  now  to  look  dull  on  me,       [Exit  Brancha." 

The  Witch  of  Middleton  is  his  most  remarkable  performance ; 
both  on  its  own  account,  and  from  the  use  that  Shakspeare  has 
made  of  some  of  the  characters  and  speeches  in  his  '  Macbeth.' 
Though  the  employment  which  Middleton  has  given  to  Hecate 
and  the  rest,  in  thwarting  the  purposes  and  perplexing  the  busi- 
ness of  familiar  and  domestic  life,  is  not  so  grand  or  appalling  as 
the  more  stupendous  agency  which  Shakspeare  has  assigned 
them,  yet  it  is  not  easy  to  deny  the  merit  of  the  first  invention  to 
Middleton,  who  has  embodied  the  existing  superstitions  of  the 
time,  respecting  that  anomalous  class  of  beings,  with  a  high 
spirit  of  poetry,  of  the  most  grotesque  and  fanciful  kind.  The 
songs  and  incantations  made  use  of  are  very  nearly  the  same. 
The  other  parts  of  this  play  are  not  so  good ;  and  the  solution  of 
the  principal  difficulty,  by  Antonio's  falling  down  a  trap-door, 
most  lame  and  impotent.  As  a  specimen  of  the  similarity  of  the 
preternatural  machinery,  I  shall  here  give  one  entire  scene. 

"T?ie  Witches' Habitation. 
Enter  Heccat,  Stadlin,  Hoppo,  and  other  Witches.  j 

Hec.    The  moon's  a  gallant :  see  how  brisk  she  rides.  ■' 

Stad.    Here's  a  rich  evening,  Heccat.  ^ 

Hec.    Aye,  is  't  not,  wenches, 
To  take  a  journey  of  five  thousand  miles  1 


52  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

Hop.     Ours  will  be  more  to-night. 

Hec.    Oh,  't  will  be  precious.     Heard  you  the  owl  yet  1 

Slad.     Briefly,  in  the  copse, 
As  we  came  through  now. 

Hec.    'Tis  high  time  for  us  then. 

Stad.     There  was  a  bat  hung  at  my  lips  three  times 
As  we  came  through  the  woods,  and  drank  her  fill : 
Old  Puckle  saw  her. 

Hec.     You  are  fortunate  still, 
The  very  scritch-owl  lights  upon  your  shoulder. 
And  woos  you  like  a  pigeon.     Are  you  furnish'd  1 
Have  you  your  ointments  1 

Stad.    All. 

Hec.     Prepare  to  flight  then. 
I'll  overtake  you  swiftly. 

Slad.     Hie  then,  Heccat! 
We  shall  be  up  betimes. 

Hec.     I'll  reach  you  quickly.  [  Tkcy  ascend. 

Enter  Firestone, 

FHre.  They  are  all  going  a-birding  to-night.  They  talk  of  fowls  i'  th'  air, 
that  fly  by  day,  I'm  sure  ther'll  be  a  company  of  foul  sluts  there  to-night.  If 
we  have  not  mortality  aflTeared,  I'll  be  hang'd,  for  they  are  able  to  putrify  it,  to 
infect  a  whole  region.     She  spies  me  now. 

Hec.    What,  Firestone,  our  sweet  son  1 

Fire.    A  little  sweeter  than  some  of  you ;  or  a  dunghill  were  too  good  for  me. 

Hec.     How  much  hast  there  'i 

Fire.  Nineteen,  and  all  brave  plump  ones ;  besides  six  lizards,  and  tluree 
serpentine  eggs. 

Hec.    Dear  and  sweet  boy  !     What  herbs  hast  thou  1 

Fire.     I  have  some  mar-mailin  and  man-dragon. 

Hec.     Mannarittin,  and  mandragora,  thou  would'st  say. 

Fire.  Here's  panneix,  too.  I  thank  thee;  my  pan  akes,  I  am  sure,  with 
kneeling  down  to  cut  'em. 

Hec.    And  selago, 
Hedge-hissop,  too !    How  near  he  goes  my  cuttings ! 
Were  they  all  cropt  by  moon-light  1 

Fire.    Every  blade  of  'em,  or  I  am  a  moon-calf,  mother, 

Hec.     Hie  thee  home  with  'em. 
Look  well  to  th'  house  to-night :  I'm  for  aloft. 

Fire.  Aloft,  quoth  you  1  I  would  you  would  break  your  neck  once,  that 
I  might  have  all  quickly  {Aside.) — Hark,  hark,  mother!  They  are  above  the 
steeple  already,  flying  over  your  head  with  a  noise  of  musicians, 

Hec.    They  are  indeed.     Help  me  !  Help  me !     I'm  too  late  else. 

SONG  {in  the  air  above.') 
Come  away,  come  away  ! 
Heccat,  Heccat,  come  away  1 


ON  LYLY,  MARLOWE,  HEYWOOD,  MIDDLETON,  ETC.   53 

Hec,  I  come,  I  come,  I  come,  I  come, 

With  all  the  speed  I  may, 
With  all  the  speed  I  may. 
Where's  Stadlin  1 
{Above.)         Here. 
Hec.  Where's  Puckle  1 

{Above.)         Here: 

And  Hoppo  too,  and  Hellwain  too ; 
We  lack  but  you,  we  lack  but  you. 
Come  away,  make  up  the  count 
Hec.  I  will  but  'noint,  and  then  I  mount. 

{A  Spirit  descends  in  the  shape  of  a  cat.) 
{Above.)         There's  one  come  down  to  fetch  his  dues  ; 
A  kiss,  a  coll,  a  sip  of  blood ; 
And  why  thou  stay'st  so  long,  I  muse,  I  muse, 
Since  th'  air's  so  sweet  and  good  1 
Hec.  Oh,  art  thou  come, 

What  news,  what  news  1 
Spirit.  All  goes  still  to  our  delight. 

Either  come,  or  else 
Refuse,  refuse. 
Hec.  Now  I  am  furnish'd  for  the  flight. 

FHre.  Hark,  hark !    The  cat  sings  a  brave  treble  in  her  own  lan- 

guage. 
Hec.  {Ascending  with  the  Spirit.) 
Now  I  go,  now  I  fly, 
Malkin,  my  sweet  spirit,  and  I. 
Oh,  what  a  dainty  pleasure  'tis 
To  ride  in  the  air 
When  the  moon  shines  fair, 
And  sing,  and  dance,  and  toy,  and  kiss ! 
Over  woods,  high  rocks,  and  mountains. 
Over  seas  our  mistress'  fountains, 
Over  steep  towers  and  turrets 
We  fly  by  night,  'mongst  troops  of  spirits. 
No  ring  of  bells  to  our  ears  sounds. 
No  howls  of  wolves,  no  yelps  of  hounds ; 
No,  not  the  noise  of  water's  breach, 
Or  cannon's  roar  our  height  can  reach. 
{Above.)         No  ring  of  bells,  &c. 

Fire.  Well,  mother,  I  thank  your  kindness.  You  must  be  gamboling 
i'  the  air,  and  leave  me  to  walk  here  like  a  fool  and  a  mortal.  [Exit. 

The  incantation  scene  at  the  cauldron  is  also  the  original  of 
that  in  Macbeth,  and  is  in  like  manner  introduced  by  the  Duchess's 
visiting  the  Witches'  habitation. 


54  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

"  The  Witches'  Habitation. 
Elder  Duchess,  Heccat,  Firestone. 
Hec.    What  death  is  't  you  desire  for  Almachildes  1 
Duch.     A  sudden  and  a  subtle, 
Hec.     Then  I've  fitted  you. 
Here  lie  the  gifts  of  both  ;  sudden  and  subtle; 
His  picture  made  in  wax  and  gently  molten 
By  a  blue  fire  kindled  with  dead  men's  eyes, 
Will  waste  him  by  degrees. 
Duch.     In  what  time,  pr'ytheel 
Hec.     Perhaps  in  a  month's  progress. 
Duch.    What!    A  month 7 
Out  upon  pictures,  if  they  be  so  tedious; 
Give  me  things  with  some  life. 
Hec.     Then  seek  no  farther. 

Duch.     This  must  be  done  with  speed,  dispatched  tliis  night, 
If  it  may  possibly. 

Hec.     I  have  it  for  you : 
Here's  that  will  do't.     Stay  but  perfection's  time, 
And  that's  not  five  hours  hence. 
Duch.    Can'st  thou  do  this  1 
Hec.     CanH 
Duch.     I  mean,  so  closely. 
Hec.     So  closely  do  you  mean  too  *? 
Duch.     So  artfully,  so  cunningly. 
Hec.     Worse  and  worse ;  doubts  and  incredulities. 
They  make  me  mad.     Let  scrupulous  creatures  know. 
Cum  volui,  ripis  ipsis  mirantibus,  amnes 
In  fontes  rediere  suos:  concussaque  sisto, 
Stantia  concutio  cantu  freta;  nubila  pello, 
Nubilaque  induco :  ventos  abigoque  vocoque. 
Vipereas  rumpo  verbis  et  carmine  fauces; 
Et  silvas  moveo,  jubeoque  tremiscere  monies, 
Et  mugire  solum,  manesque  exire  sepulchris. 
Te  quoque,  Luna,  traho. 
Can  you  doubt  me  then,  daughter  1 
That  can  make  mountains  tremble,  miles  of  woods  walk  ; 
Whole  earth's  foundations  bellow,  and  the  spirits 
Of  the  entomb'd  to  burst  out  from  their  marbles  ; 
Nay,  draw  yon  moon  to  my  involv'd  designs  1 

Fire.     I  know  as  well  as  can  be  when  my  mother's  mad,  and  our  great  cat 
angry ;  for  the  one  spits  French  then,  and  the  other  spits  Latin. 
Duch.     I  did  not  doubt  you,  mother. 
Hec.    No  1  what  did  you  1 
My  power's  so  firm,  it  is  not  to  be  question'd. 

Duch.    Forgive  what's  past:  and  now  I  know  th'  offensiveness 
That  vexes  art,  I'll  shun  the  occasion  ever. 


ON  LYLY,  MARLOWE,  HEYWOOD,  MIDDLETON,  ETC.  55 


[Exit  Duchess. 
They  ate  up  as 


Hec.     Leave  all  to  me  and  my  five  sister§,  daughter. 
It  shall  be  conveyed  in  at  howlet-time. 
Take  you  no  care.     My  spirits  know  their  moments  ; 
Raven  or  scritch-owl  never  fly  by  th'  door, 
But  they  call  in  (I  thank  'em),  and  they  lose  not  by  't. 
I  give  'em  barley  soak'd  in  infants'  blood  : 
They  shall  have  semina  cuvi  sangui7ie, 
Their  gorge  cramm'd  full,  if  they  come  once  to  our  house : 
We  are  no  niggard. 

FHre.     They  fare  but  too  well  when  they  come  hither, 
much  t'  other  night  as  would  have  made  me  a  good  conscionable  pudding. 

Hec.     Give  me  some  lizard's  brain  :  quickly,  Firestone  ! 
Where's  grannam  Stadlin,  and  all  the  rest  o'  th'  sisters  1 

J^ire.    All  at  hand,  forsooth.  [The  other  Witches  appear. 

Hec.    Give  me  mai-maritin  ;  some  bear-breech.     When  1 

Fire.     Here's  bear-breech  and  lizard's  brain,  forsooth. 

Hec.     Into  the  vessel ; 
And  fetch  three  ounces  of  the  red-hair'd  girl  ' 

I  kill'd  last  midnight. 

FHre.     Whereabout,  sweet  mother  1 

Hec.     Hip ;  hip  or  flank.     Where  is  the  acopus  1 

Fire.     You  shall  have  acopus,  forsooth. 

Hec.     Stir,  stir  about,  whilst  I  begin  the  charm. 


A  CHARM  SONG. 

(  TVie  Witches  going  about  the  cauldron.) 
Black  spirits,  and  white ;  red  spirits,  and  grey ; 
Mingle,  mingle,  mingle,  you  that  mingle  may. 

Titty,  Tifiin,  keep  it  stiflf  in  ; 

Firedrake,  Puckey,  make  it  lucky ; 

Liard,  Robin,  you  must  bob  in. 
Round,  around,  around,  about,  about ; 
All  ill  come  mnning  in  ;  all  good  keep  out ! 

1st  WUcJi.    Here's  the  blood  of  a  bat. 

Hec.  Put  in  that ;  oh,  put  in  that. 

''2nd  Wit<:h.    Here's  libbard's-bane. 

Hec.  Put  in  again. 

1st  Witch.    The  juice  of  toad;  the  oil  of  adder. 

2nd  Witch.    Those  will  make  the  younker  madder. 

Hec.  Put  in  ;  there's  all,  and  rid  the  stench. 

f\re.  Nay,  here's  three  ounces  of  the  red-hair'd  wench. 

All.  Round,  around,  around,  &c. 

Hec.  So,  so,  enough :  into  the  vessel  with  it. 

There ;  't  hath  the  true  perfection.     I'm  so  light 
At  any  mischief:  there's  no  villany 
But  is  a  tune,  methinks. 


56  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

Fire.    A  tune  !  'Tis  to  the  tune  of  damnation  then,  I  Wcirrant  you,  and  that 
song  hath  a  villanous  burthen. 
Hec.  Come,  my  sweet  sisters ;  let  the  air  strike  our  tune 

Whilst  we  show  reverence  to  yon  peeping  moon. 

[The  Witches  daiicc  and  iJien  exeunU^ 

I  will  conclude  this  account  with  Mr.  Lamb's  observations  on 
the  distinctive  characters  of  these  extraordinary  and  formidable 
personages,  as  they  are  described  by  Middleton  or  Shakspeare  : 

"  Though  some  resemblance  may  be  traced  between  the 
Charms  in  Macbeth  and  the  Incantations  in  this  play,  which  is  sup- 
posed  to  have  preceded  it,  this  coincidence  will  not  detract  much 
from  the  originality  of  Shakspeare.  His  witches  are  distinguished 
from  the  witches  of  Middleton  by  essential  differences.  These 
are  creatures  to  whom  man  or  woman,  plotting  some  dire  mis- 
chief, might  resort  for  occasional  consultation.  Those  originate 
deeds  of  blood,  and  begin  bad  impulses  to  men.  From  the  mo- 
ment that  their  eyes  first  meet  Macbeth's,  he  is  spell-bound. 
That  meeting  sways  his  destiny.  He  can  never  break  the  fasci- 
nation. These  Witches  can  hurt  the  body ;  those  have  power 
over  the  soul.  Hecate,  in  Middleton,  has  a  son,  a  low  buffoon : 
the  Hags  of  ^akspeare  have  neither  child  of  their  own,  nor 
seem  to  be  descended  from  any  parent.  They  are  foul  anomalies, 
of  whom  we  know  not  whence  they  sprung,  nor  whether  they 
have  beginning  or  ending.  As  they  are  without  human  passions, 
so  they  seem  to  be  without  human  relations.  They  come  with 
thunder  and  lightning,  and  vanish  to  airy  music.  This  is 
all  we  know  of  them.  Except  Hecate,  they  have  no  names, 
which  heightens  their  mysteriousness.  The  names,  and  some 
of  the  properties  which  Middleton  has  given  to  his  Hags,  excite 
smiles.  The  Weird  Sisters  are  serious  things.  Their  presence 
cannot  co-exist  with  mirth.  But  in  a  lesser  degree,  the  Witches 
of  Middleton  are  fine  creations.  Their  power  too  is,  in  some 
measure,  over  the  mind.  They  '  raise  jars,  jealousies,  strifes, 
like  a  thick  scurf  o'er  life.'  "* 


*  Lamb's  '  Specimens  of  English  Dramatic  Poets.'    Vol  L  p.  187.   Moxon, 
London. 


ON  MARSTON,  CHAPMAN,  DECKER,  AND  WEBSTER.    57 


LECTURE  III. 

On  Marston,  Chapman,  Decker,  and  Webster. 

The  writers  of  whom  I  have  already  treated  may  be  said  to  have 
been  "no  mean  men;"  those  of  whom  I  have  yet  to  speak  are 
certainly  no  whit  inferior.     Would  that  I  could  do  them  anything 
like  justice  !     It  is  not  difficult  to  give  at  least  their  seeming  due 
to  great  and  well-known  names ;  for  the  sentiments  of  the  reader 
meet  the  descriptions  of  the  critic  more  than  half  way,  and 
clothe  what  is  perhaps  vague  and  extravagant  praise  with  a  sub- 
stantial form  and  distinct  meaning.     But  in  attempting  to  extol 
the  merits  of  an  obscure  work  of  genius,  our  words  are  either 
lost  in  e^pty  air,  or  are  "  blown  stifling  back"  upon  the  mouth 
that  utters  them.     The  greater  those  merits  are,  and  the  truer 
the  praise,  the  more  suspicious  and  disproportionate  does  it  al- 
most necessarily  appear ;  for  it  has  no  relation  to  any  imaore  pre- 
viously existing  in  the  public  mind,  and  therefore  looks  like  an 
imposition  fabricated  out  of  nothing.     In  this  case,  the  only  way 
that  I  know  of  is,  to  make  these  old  writers  (as  much  as  can  be) 
vouchers  for  their  own  pretensions,  which  they  are  well  able  to 
make  good.     I  shall  in  the  present  lecture  give  some  account  of 
Marston  and  Chapman,  and  afterwards  of  Decker  and  Webster. 
Marston  is  a  writer  of  great  merit,  who  rose  to  tragedy  from 
the  ground  of  comedy,  and  whose ybrZe  v/as  not  sympathy,  either 
with  the  stronger  or  softer  emotions,  but  an  impatient  scorn  and 
bitter  indignation  against  the  vices  and  follies  of  men,  which 
vented  itself  either  in  comic  irony  or  in  lofty  invective.     He  was 
properly  a  satirist.     He  was  not  a  favourite  with  his  contempo- 
raries, nor  they  with  him.     He  was  first  on  terms  of  great  inti- 
macy, and  afterwards  at  open  war,  with  Ben  Jonson ;  and  he  is 
most  unfairly  criticized  in  The  Return  from  Parnassus,  under 
the  name  of  Monsieur  Kinsayder,  as  a  mere  libeller  and  buffoon. 

Writers  in  their  life-time  do  all  they  can  to  degrade  and  vilify 
5 


58  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

one  another,  and  expect  posterity  to  have  a  very  tender  care  of 
their  reputations  !  The  writers  of  this  age,  in  general,  cannot 
however  be  reproached  with  this  infirmity.  The  number  of 
plays  that  they  wrote  in  conjunction  is  a  proof  of  the  contrary  ; 
and  a  circumstance  no  less  curious,  as  to  the  division  of  intellec- 
tual labour,  than  the  cordial  union  of  sentiment  it  implied.  Un- 
like most  poets,  the  love  of  their  art  surmounted  their  hatred  of 
one  another.  Genius  was  not  become  a  vile  and  vulgar  pretence, 
and  they  respected  in  others  what  they  knew  to  be  true  inspira- 
tion in  themselves.  They  courted  the  applause  of  the  multitude, 
but  came  to  one  another  for  judgment  and  assistance.  When 
we  see  these  writers  workinf^  torjether  on  the  same  admirable 
productions,  year  after  year,  as  was  the  case  with  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher,  Middleton  and  Rowley,  with  Chapman,  Decker,  and 
Jonson,  it  reminds  one  of  Ariosto's  eloquent  apostrophe  to  the 
Spirit  of  Ancient  Chivalry,  when  he  has  seated  his  rival  knights, 
Renaldo  and  Ferraw,  on  the  same  horse  : 

"  Oh  ancient  knights  of  true  and  noble  heart, 
They  rivals  were,  one  faith  they  liv'd  not  under 
Besides,  they  felt  their  bodies  shrewdly  smart 
Of  blows  late  given,  and  yet  (behold  a  wonder) 
Thro'  thick  and  thin,  suspicion  set  apart, 
Like  friends  they  ride,  and  parted  not  asunder, 
Until  the  horse  with  double  spurring  drived 
Unto  a  way  parted  in  two,  arrived."* 

Marston's  Antonio  and  Mellida  is  a  tragedy  of  considerable 
force  and  pathos;  but  in  the  most  critical  parts,  the  author  fre- 
quently breaks  off  or  flags  without  any  apparent  reason  but 
want  of  interest  in  his  subject ;  and  farther,  the  best  and  most 
affecting  situations  and  bursts  of  feeling  are  too  evidently  imita- 
tions of  Shak.speare.  Thus  the  unexpected  meeting  between 
Andrugio  and  Lucio,  in  the  beginning  of  the  third  act,  is  a  direct 
counterpart  of  that  between  Lear  and  Kent,  only  much  weakened  : 
and  the  interview  between  Antonio  and  Mellida  has  a  strong  re- 
semblance to  the  still  more  affecting  one  between  Lear  and  Cor- 
delia, and  is  most  wantonl/ disfigured  by  the  sudden  introduction 

•  Sir  John  Harrington's  translatioa 


ON  MARSTON,  CHAPMAN,  DECKER,  AND  WEBSTER.    59 

of  half  a  page  of  Italian  rhymes,  which  gives  the  whole  an  air 
of  burlesque.  The  conversation  of  Lucio  and  Andrugio,  again, 
after  his  defeat,  seems  to  invite,  but  will  not  bear  a  comparison 
with  Richard  the  Second's  remonstrance  with  his  courtiers,  who 
offered  him  consolation  in  his  misfortunes  ;  and  no  one  can  be  at 
a  loss  to  trace  the  allusion  to  Romeo's  conduct  on  being  apprized 
of  his  banishment,  in  the  termination  of  the  following  speech  : 

"  Antonio.    Each  man  takes  hence  life,  but  no  man  death ; 
He's  a  good  fellow,  and  keeps  open  house  ; 
A  thousand  thousand  ways  lead  to  his  gate, 
To  his  wide-mouthed  porch :  when  niggard  life 
Hath  but  one  little,  little  wicket  through. 
We  wring  ourselves  into  this  wretched  world 
To  pule  and  weep,  exclaim,  to  curse  and  rail, 
To  fret  and  ban  the  fates,  to  strike  the  earth 
As  I  do  now.     Antonio,  curse  thy  birth, 
And  die." 

The  following  short  passage  might  be  quoted  as  one  of  exqui- 
site beauty  and  originality — 

— '*  As  having  clasp'd  a  rose 
Within  my  palm,  the  rose  being  ta'en  away, 
My  hand  retains  a  little  breath  of  sweet ; 
So  may  man's  trunk,  his  spirit  slipp'd  away. 
Hold  still  a  faint  perfume  of  his  sweet  guest." 

Act  IV,  Scene  1. 

The  character  of  Felice  in  this  play  is  an  admirable  satirical 
accompaniment,  and  is  the  favourite  character  of  this  author  (in 
all  probability  his  own),  that  of  a  shrewd,  contemplative  cynic, 
and  sarcastic  spectator  in  the  drama  of  human  life.  It  runs 
through  all  his  plays,  is  shared  by  Quadratus  and  Lampatho  in 
'  What  you  Will,'  (it  is  into  the  mouth  of  the  last  of  these  that 
he  has  put  that  fine  invective  against  the  uses  of  philosophy,  in 
the  account  of  himself  and  his  spaniel,  "  who  still  slept  while  he 
baus'd  leaves,  tossed  o'er  the  dunces,  por'd  on  the  old  print"), 
and  is  at  its  height  in  the  Fawn  and  Malevole,  in  his  '  Parasitas- 
ter'  and  *  Malcontent.'  These  two  comedies  are  his  chef-d'(Bu- 
vres.  The  character  of  the  Duke  Hercules  of  Ferrara,  disguised 
as  the  Parasite;  in  the  first  of  these,  is  well  sustained  throughout, 


60  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 


with  great  sense,  dignity,  and  spirit.  He  is  a  wise  censurer  of 
men  and  things,  and  rails  at  the  world  with  charitable  bitter, 
ness.  He  may  put  in  a  claim  to  a  sort  of  family  likeness  to 
the  Duke,  in  '  Measure  for  Measure,'  only  the  latter  descends 
from  his  elevation  to  watch  in  secret  over  serious  crimes  ;  the 
other  is  only  a  spy  on  private  follies.  There  is  something  in 
this  cast  of  character  (at  least  in  comedy — perhaps  it  neutral- 
izes the  tone  and  interest  in  tragedy),  that  finds  a  wonderful 
reciprocity  in  the  breast  of  the  reader  or  audience.  It  forms  a 
kind  of  middle  term  or  point  of  union  between  the  busy  actors 
in  the  scene  and  the  indifferent  bystander,  insinuates  the  plot,  and 
suggests  a  number  of  good  wholesome  reflections,  for  the  saga- 
city and  honesty  of  which  we  do  not  fail  to  take  credit  to  our- 
selves. We  are  let  into  its  confidence,  and  have  a  perfect 
reliance  on  its  sincerity.  Our  sympathy  with  it  is  without  any 
drawback  ;  for  it  has  no  part  to  perform  itself,  and  "  is  nothing, 
if  not  critical."  It  is  a  sure  card  to  play.  We  may  doubt  the 
motives  of  heroic  actions,  or  differ  about  the  just  limits  and 
extreme  workings  of  the  passions;  but  the  professed  misanthrope 
is  a  character  that  no  one  need  feel  any  scruples  in  trusting, 
since  the  dislike  of  folly  and  knavery  in  the  abstract  is  common 
to  knaves  and  fools  with  the  wise  and  honest !  Besides  the  in- 
structive moral  vein  of  Hercules  as  the  Fawn  or  Parasitaster, 
which  contains  a  world  of  excellent  matter  most  aptly  and  wittily 
delivered,  there  are  two  other  characters  perfectly  hit  off,  Gon- 
zago,  the  old  prince  of  Urbino,  and  Granuffo,  one  of  his  lords  in 
waiting.  The  loquacious,  good-humoured,  undisguised  vanity 
of  the  one  is  excellently  relieved  by  the  silent  gravity  of  the 
other.  The  wit  of  this  last  character  (Granuffo)  consists  in  his 
not  speaking  a  word  through  the  whole  play  ;  he  never  contra- 
dicts what  is  said,  and  only  assents  by  implication.  He  is  a 
most  infallible  courtier,  and  follows  the  prince  like  his  shadow, 
who  thus  graces  his  pretensions. 

**  We  would  be  private,  only  Faunus  stay ;  he  is  a  wise  fellow,  daughter, 
a  very  wise  fellow',  for  he  is  still  just  of  my  opinion;  my  Lord  GranulTo,  you 
may  likewise  stay,  for  I  know  you'll  say  nothing." 

And  again,  a  little  farther  on,  he  says— 

"  Faunus,  this  Granuffo  is  a  right  wise  good  lord,  a  man  of  excellent  dis- 


ON  MARSTON,  CHAPMAN,  DECKER,  AND  WEBSTER.    61 

course,  and  never  speaks;  his  signs  to  me  and  men  of  profound  reach  instruct 
abundantly ;  he  begs  suits  with  signs,  gives  thanks  with  signs,  puts  off  his 
hat  leisurely,  maintains  his  beard  learnedly,  keeps  his  lust  privately,  makes  a 
nodding  leg  courtly,  and  lives  happily." — "  Silence,"  [replies  Hercules,]  "  is 
an  excellent  modest  grace ;  but  especially  before  so  instructing  a  wisdom  as 
that  of  your  Excellency." 

The  garrulous  self-complacency  of  this  old  lord  is  kept  up  in 
a  vein  of  pleasant  humour ;  an  instance  of  which  might  be  given 
in  his  owning  of  some  learned  man,  that  "  though  he  was  no 
duke,  yet  he  was  wise  ;"  and  the  manner  in  which  the  others 
play  upon  this  foible,  and  make  him  contribute  to  his  own  dis- 
comfiture, without  his  having  the  least  suspicion  of  the  plot 
against  him,  is  full  of  ingenuity  and  counterpoint.  In  the  last 
scene  he  says,  very  characteristically, 

"  Of  all  creatures  breathing,  I  do  hate  those  things  that  struggle  to  seem 
wise,  and  yet  are  indeed  very  fools.  I  remember  when  I  was  a  young  man, 
in  my  father's  days,  there  were  four  gallant  spirits  for  resolution,  as  proper  for 
body,  as  witty  in  discourse,  as  any  were  in  Europe ;  nay,  Europe  had  not 
such.  I  was  one  of  them.  We  four  did  all  love  one  lady  ;  a  most  chaste 
virgin  she  was:  we  all  enjoyed  her,  and  so  enjoyed  her,  that,  despite  the 
strictest  guard  was  set  upon  her,  we  had  her  at  our  pleasure.  I  speak  it  for 
her  honour,  and  my  credit.  Where  shall  you  find  such  witty  fellows  now-a- 
days  1  Alas  !  how  easy  is  it  in  these  weaker  times  to  cross  love-tricks  !  Ha ! 
ha!  ha!  Alas,  alas!  I  smile  to  think  (I  must  confess  with  some  glory  to 
mine  own  wisdom),  to  think  how  I  found  out,  and  crossed,  and  curbed,  and 
in  the  end  made  desperate  Tiberio's  love.  Alas  !  good  silly  youth,  that  dared 
to  cope  with  age  and  such  a  beard ! 

Hercules.     But  what  yet  might  your  well-known  wisdom  think, 
If  such  a  one,  as  being  most  severe, 
A  most  protested  opposite  to  the  match 
Of  two  young  lovers;  who  having  barr'd  them  speech, 
All  interviews,  all  messages,  all  means 
To  plot  their  wished  ends  ;  even  he  himself 
Was  by  their  cunning  made  the  go-between. 
The  only  messenger,  the  token  carrier ; 
Told  them  the  times  when  they  might  fitly  meet, 
Nay,  show'd  the  way  to  one  another's  bed  V 

To  which  Gonzago  replies,  in  a  strain  of  exulting  dotage 

"  May  one  have  the  sight  of  such  a  fellow  for  nothing  *?  Doth  there  breathe 
such  an  egregious  ass  1  Is  there  such  a  foolish  animal  in  rervm  nainra? 
How  is  it  possible  such  a  simplicity  can  exist  1    Let  us  not  lose  our  laughing 


THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 


at  him,  for  God's  sake  ;  let  folly's  sceptre  light  upon  him,  and  to  tlie  Ship  of 
Fools  with  him  instantly. 

Dondolo.     Of  all  these  follies  I  arrest  your  grace,'* 

Moliere  has  built  a  play  on  nearly  the  same  foundation,  which 
is  not  much  superior  to  the  present.  Marston,  among  other 
topics  of  satire,  has  a  fling  at  the  pseudo-critics  and  philosophers 
of  his  time,  who  were  "  full  of  wise  saws  and  modern  instances." 
Thus  he  freights  his  Ship  of  Fools. 

"  Dondolo.  Yes,  yes ;  but  they  got  a  supersedeas ;  all  of  them  proved 
themselves  either  knaves  or  madmen,  and  so  were  let  go:  there's  none  left 
now  in  our  ship  but  a  few  citizens  that  let  their  wives  keep  their  shop-books, 
some  philosophers,  and  a  few  critics ;  one  of  which  critics  has  lost  his  flesh 
\idth  fishing  at  the  measure  of  Plautus'  verses ;  another  has  vowed  to  get  the 
consumption  of  the  lungs,  or  to  leave  to  posterity  the  true  orthography  and 
proniticiation  of  laughing. 

Hercnlcx.    But  what  philosophers  ha'  ye  1 

Dondolo.  Oh,  very  strange  fellows ;  one  knows  nothing,  dares  not  aver  he 
lives,  goes,  sees,  feels. 

Nymphadoro.     A  most  insensible  philosopher. 

Dondolo.  Another,  that  there  is  no  present  time  ;  and  that  one  man  to-day 
and  to-morrow,  is  not  the  same  man ;  so  that  he  that  yesterday  owed  money, 
to-day  owes  none  ;  because  he  is  not  the  same  man. 

Herod.     Would  that  philosophy  hold  good  in  law? 

Hercules.  But  why  has  the  Duke  thus  laboured  to  have  all  the  fools  ship- 
ped out  of  his  dominions  1 

Dondolo.     Marry,  because  he  would  play  the  fool  alone  without  any  rival. 

Act  IV. 

Moliere  has  enlarged  upon  the  same  topic  in  his  Manage 
Forc6,  but  not  with  more  point  or  effect.  Nymphadoro's  reasons 
for  devoting  himself  to  the  sex  generally,  and  Hercules's  descrip- 
tion of  the  different  qualifications  of  different  men,  will  also  be 
found  to  contain  excellent  specimens,  both  of  style  and  matter. 
The  disguise  of  Hercules  as  the  Fawn  is  assumed  voluntarily, 
and  he  is  comparatively  a  calm  and  dispassionate  observer  of  the 
times.  Malevole's  disguise  in  the  Malcontent  has  been  forced 
upon  him  by  usurpation  and  injustice,  and  his  invectives  are  ac- 
cordingly more  impassioned  and  virulent.  His  satire  does  not 
"  like  a  wild  goose  fly,  unclaimed  of  any  man,"  but  has  a  bitter 
and  personal  aj)plication.  Take  him  in  the  words  of  the  usurp- 
ing Duke's  account  of  Iiim : 


ON  MARSTON,  CHAPMAN,  DECKER,  AND  WEBSTER.    63 

"  This  Malevole  is  one  of  ihe  most  prodigious  affections  tliat  ever  conversed 
with  Nature  ;  a  man,  or  rather  a  monster,  more  discontent  than  Lucifer  when 
he  was  thrust  out  of  the  presence.  His  appetite  is  unsatiable  as  the  grave,  as 
far  from  any  content  as  from  heaven.  His  highest  delight  is  to  procure  others 
vexation,  and  therein  he  thinks  he  truly  sei'ves  heaven  ;  for  'tis  his  position, 
whosoever  in  this'earth  can  be  contentea  is  a  slave,  and  damned ;  therefore  does 
he  afflict  all,  in  that  to  which  they  are  most  affected.  The  elements  struggle 
with  him;  his  own  soul  is  at  variance  with  herself;  his  speech  is  halter- 
worthy  at  all  hours.  I  like  him,  'faith ;  he  gives  good  intelligence  to  my 
spirit,  makes  me  understand  those  weaknesses  which  others'  flattery  palliates. 

Hark!  they  sing. 

Enter  Malevole,  after  the  song. 

Pietro  Jacomvo.  See  he  comes  !  Now  shall  you  hear  the  extremity  of  a 
Malcontent;  he  is  as  free  as  air;  he  blows  over  every  man.  And — Sir, 
whence  come  you  now? 

Malevole.     From  the  public  place  of  much  dissimulation,  the  church. 

Pietro  Jacomo.     What  didst  there  1 

Malevole.     Talk  with  a  usurer;  take  up  at  interest. 

Pietro  Jacomo.     I  wonder  what  religion  thou  art  of? 

Malevole.     Of  a  soldier's  religion. 

Pietro  Jacomo.      And  what  dost  think  makes  most  infidels  now  1 

Malevole.  Sects,  sects.  I  am  weary;  would  I  were  one  of  the  Duke's 
hounds. 

Pietro  Jaxomo.  But  what's  the  common  news  abroad  7  Thou  dogg'st 
rumour  still. 

Malevole.  Common  news  ^  Why,  common  words  are,  God  save  ye,  Fare 
ye  well:  common  actions,  flatteiyand cozenage :  common  things,  women  and 
cuckolds." 

Ad  I.  Scene  3. 

In  reading  all  this,  one  is  somehow  reminded  perpetually  of 
Mr.  Kean's  acting  :  in  Shakspeare  we  do  not  often  think  of  him, 
except  in  those  parts  which  he  constantly  acts,  and  in  those  one 
cannot  forget  him.  I  might  observe  on  the  above  passage,  in  ex- 
cuse for  some  bluntness  of  style,  that  the  ideal  barrier  between 
names  and  things  seems  to  have  been  greater  then  than  now. 
Words  have  become  instruments  of  more  importance  than  form- 
erly. To  mention  certain  actions,  is  almost  to  participate  in 
them,  as  if  consciousness  were  the  same  as  guilt.  The  standard 
of  delicacy  varies  at  different  periods,  as  it  does  in  different  coun- 
tries, and  is  not  a  general  test,  of  superiority.  The  French,  who 
pique  themselves  (and  justly,  in  some  particulars)  on  their  quick- 
ness of  tact  and  refinement  of  breeding,  say  and  do  things  which 
we,  a  plainer  and  coarser  people,  could  not  think  of  without  a 


64  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

blush.  What  would  seem  gross  allusions  to  us  at  present,  were 
without  offence  to  our  ancestors,  and  many  things  passed  for  jests 
with  them,  or  matters  of  indifference,  which  would  not  now  be 
endured.  Refinement  of  language,  however,  does  not  keep  pace 
with  simplicity  of  manners.  The  severity  of  criticism  exercised 
in  our  theatres  towards  some  unfortunate  straggling  phrases  in 
the  old  comedies,  is  but  an  ambiguous  compliment  to  the  immacu- 
late purity  of  modern  times.  Marston's  style  was  by  no  means 
more  guarded  than  that  of  his  contemporaries.  He  was  also 
much  more  of  a  free-thinker  than  Marlowe,  and  there  is  a  fre- 
quent and  not  unfavourable  allusion,  in  his  works,  to  later  scepti- 
cal opinions.  In  the  play  of  the  '  Malcontent'  we  meet  with  an 
occasional  mixture  of  comic  gaiety,  to  relieve  the  more  serious 
and  painful  business  of  the  scene,  as  in  the  easy  loquacious  ef- 
frontery of  the  old  intriguante  Maquerella,  and  in  the  ludicrous 
facility  with  which  the  idle  courtiers  avoid  or  seek  the  notice  of 
Malevole,  as  he  is  in  or  out  of  favour;  but  the  general  tone  and 
import  of  the  piece  is  severe  and  moral.  Tlie  plot  is  somewhat 
too  intricate  and  too  often  changed  (like  the  shifting  of  a  scene,) 
so  as  to  break  and  fritter  away  the  interest  at  the  end  ;  but  the 
part  of  Aurelia,  the  Duchess  of  Pictro  Jacomo,  a  dissolute  and 
proud-spirited  woman,  is  the  highest  strain  of  Marston's  pen. 
The  scene  in  particular,  in  which  she  receives  and  exults  in  the 
supposed  news  of  her  husband's  death,  is  nearly  unequalled  in 
boldness  of  conception  and  in  the  unrestrained  force  of  passion, 
taking  Vway  not  only  the  consciousness  of  guilt,  but  overcoming 
the  sense  of  shame.* 

Next  to  Marston,  I  must  put  Chapman,  whose  name  is  better 
known  as  the  translator  of  Homer  than  as  a  dramatic  writer. 
He  is,  like  Marston,  a  philosophic  observer,  a  didactic  reasoner  : 
but  he  has  both  more  gravity  in  his  tragic  style,  and  more  levity 
in  his  comic  vein.  His  '  Bussy  d'Ambois,' though  not  without 
interest  or  some  fancy,  is  rather  a  collection  of  apophthegms  or 
pointed  sayings  in  the  form  of  a  dialogue,  than  a  poem  or  a 
tragedy.  In  his  verses  the  oracles  have  not  ceased.  Every 
other  line  is  an  axiom  in  morals — a  libel  on  mankind,  if  truth  is 

•  See  conclusion  of  Lecture  IV. 


ON  MARSTON,  CHAPMAN,  DECKER,  AND  WEBSTER.      65 

a  libel.  He  is  too  stately  for  a  wit,  in  his  serious  writings — too 
formal  for  a  poet.  '  Bussy  d'Ambois'  is  founded  on  a  French 
plot  and  French  manners.  The  character,  from  which  it  derives 
its  name,  is  arrogant  and  ostentatious  to  an  unheard-of  degree, 
but  full  of  nobleness  and  lofty  spirit.  His  pride  and  unmeasured 
pretensions  alone  take  away  from  his  real  merit;  and  by  the 
quarrels  and  intrigues  in  which  they  involve  him,  bring  about 
the  catastrophe,  which  has  considerable  grandeur  and  imposing 
effect,  in  the  manner  of  Seneca.  Our  author  aims  at  the  highest 
things  in  poetry,  and  tries  in  vain,  wanting  imagination  and  pas- 
sion, to  fill  up  the  epic  moulds  of  tragedy  with  sense  and  reason 
alone,  so  that  he  often  runs  into  bombast  and  turgidity — is  extra- 
vagant and  pedantic  at  one  and  the  same  time.  From  the  nature 
of  the  plot,  which  turns  upon  a  love  intrigue,  much  of  the  philo- 
sophy of  this  piece  relates  to  the  character  of  the  sex.  Milton 
says 

"  The  way  of  woman's  will  is  hard  to  hit." 

But  old  Chapman  professes  to  have  found  the  clue  to  it,  and 
winds  his  uncouth  way  through  all  the  labyrinth  of  love.  Its 
deepest  recesses  "  hide  nothing  from  his  view."  The  close  in- 
trigues of  court  policy,  the  subtle  workings  of  the  human  soul, 
move  before  him  like  a  sea,  dark,  deep,  and  glittering  with  wrinkles 
for  the  smile  of  beauty.  Fulke  Greville  alone  could  go  beyond 
him  in  gravity  and  mystery.  The  plays  of  the  latter  (Mustapha 
and  A]  a  ham)  are  abstruse  as  the  mysteries  of  old,  and  his  style 
inexplicable  as  the  riddles  of  the  Sphinx.  As  an  instance  of  his 
love  for  the  obscure,  the  marvellous,  and  impossible,  he  calls  up 
"  the  ghofst  of  one  of  the  old  kings  of  Ormus,"  as  a  prologue  to 
one  of  his  tragedies  ;  a  very  reverend  and  inscrutable  personage, 
who,  we  may  be  sure,  blabs  no  living  secrets.  Chapman,  in  his 
other  pieces,  where  he  lays  aside  the  gravity  of  the  philosopher 
and  poet,  discovers  an  unexpected  comic  vein,  distinguished  by 
equal  truth  of  nature  and  lively  good  humour.  I  cannot  say 
that  this  character  pervades  any  one  of  his  entire  comedies ; 
but  the  introductory  sketch  of  Monsieur  D'Olive  is  the  undoubted 
prototype  of  that  light,  flippant,  gay,  and  infinitely  delightful 
class  of  character,  of  the  professed  men  of  wit  and  pleasure 


66  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

about  town,  which  we  have  in  such  perfection  in  Wycherly  and 
Congreve,  such  as  Sparkish,  Witwoud,  and  Petulant,  &c.,  both 
in  the  sentiments  and  in  the  style  of  writing.  For  example, 
take  the  last  scene  of  the  first  act. 

Enter  D'Olive. 

JRhoderique.  What,  Monsieur  D'Olive,  the  only  admirer  of  wit  and  good 
words. 

D'Olive.  Morrow,  wits:  morrow,  good  wits:  my  little  parcels  of  wit,  I 
have  rods  in  pickle  for  you.  How  dost,  Jack ;  may  I  call  thee,  sir,  Jack 
yetl 

Mugeron.  You  may,  sir;  sir's  as  commendable  an  addition  as  Jack,  for 
aught  I  know. 

D'Ol.     I  know  it,  Jack,  and  as  common  too. 

Rhod.  Go  to,  you  may  cover;  we  have  taken  notice  of  your  embroidered 
beaver. 

D'Ol.  Look  you  :  by  heaven  thou'rt  one  of  the  maddest  bitter  slaves  in 
Europe  :  I  do  but  wonder  how  I  made  shift  to  love  thee  all  this  while 

Rhod.     Go  to,  what  might  such  a  parcel-gilt  cover  be  worth  1 

Mug.     Perhaps  more  than  the  whole  piece  beside. 

D'Ol.  Good  i'faith,  but  bitter.  Oh,  you  mad  slaves,  I  think  you  had 
Satyrs  to  your  sires,  yet  I  must  love  you,  I  must  take  pleasure  in  you,  and 
i'faith  tell  me,  how  is't  7  live  I  see  you  do,  but  how  1  but  how,  wits  1 

Rhod.     'Faith,  as  you  see,  hke  poor  younger  brothers. 

D'Ol.     By  your  wits'] 

Mug.     Nay,  not  turned  poets,  neither. 

D'Ol.  Good  in  sooth!  But  indeed,  to  say  truth,  time  was  when  the  sons 
of  the  Muses  had  the  privilege  to  live  only  by  their  wits,  but  times  are  altered  ; 
monopolies  are  now  called  in,  and  wit's  become  a  free  trade  for  all  sorts  to 
live  by :  lawyers  live  by  wit,  and  they  live  worshipfully  :  soldiers  live  by  wit, 
and  they  live  honourably:  panders  live  by  wit,  and  they  live  honestly:  in  a 
word,  there  are  but  few  trades  but  live  by  wit,  only  bawds  and  midwives  by 
woman's  labours,  as  fools  and  fiddlers  do  making  mirth,  pages  and  parasites 
by  making  legs,  painters  and  players  by  making  mouths  and  faces':  ha,  does't 
well,  wits  1 

Rhod.  'Faith,  thou  followest  a  figure  in  thy  jests,  as  country  gentlemen  fol- 
low fashions,  when  they  be  worn  threadbare. 

D'Ol.  Well,  well,  let's  leave  these  wit  skirmishes,  and  say  when  shall  we 
meetl 

Mug.     How  think  you,  are  we  not  met  now  1 

D'Ol.  Tush,  man!  f  mean  at  my  chamber,  where  we  may  make  free  use 
of  ourselves  ;  that  is,  drink  sack,  and  talk  satire,  and  let  our  wits  run  the  wild- 
goose  chase  over  court  and  country.  I  will  have  my  chamber  the  rendezvous 
of  all  good  wits,  the  shop  of  good  words,  the  mint  of  good  jests,  an  ordinary 
of  fine  discourse;  critics,  essayists,  linguists,  poets,  and  other  professors  of 


ON  MARSTON,  CHAPMAN,  DECKER,  AND  WEBSTER.      67 

that  faculty  of  wit,  shall  at  certain  hours  i'  th'  day,  resort  thither ;  it  shall  be 
a  second  Sorbonne,  where  all  doubts  or  differences  of  learning,  honour,  duel- 
ism,  criticism,  and  poetry,  shall  be  disputed :  and  how,  wits,  do  ye  follow  the 
court  stili  1 

Rhod.  Close  at  heels,  sir ;  and  I  can  tell  you,  you  have  much  to  answer  to 
your  stars,  that  you  do  not  so  too. 

D'Ol.  As  why,  wits'?  as  whyl 

Rhod.  Why,  sir,  the  court's  as  'twere  the  stage:  and  they  that  have  a  good 
suit  of  parts  and  qualities  ought  to  press  thither  to  grace  them,  and  receive 
tlieir  due  merit. 

D'Ol.  Tush,  let  the  court  follow  me:  he  that  soars  too  near  the  sun,  melts 
his  wings  many  times;  as  I  am,  I  possess  myself,  I  enjoy  my  liberty,  my 
learning,  my  wit :  as  for  wealth  and  honour,  let  'em  go ;  I'll  not  lose  my  learn- 
ing to  be  a  lord,  nor  my  wit  to  be  an  alderman. 

Mug.     Admirable  D'Olive  ! 

D'Ol.  And  what!  you  stand  gazing  at  this  comet  here,  and  admire  it,  I 
dare  say. 

Rhod.    And  do  not  you  1 

D^Ol.     Not  I,  I  admire  nothing  but  wit, 

Rhod.  But  I  wonder  how  she  entertains  time  in  that  solitary  cell :  does  she 
not  take  tobacco,  think  you  1 

D^OL  She  does,  she  does:  others  make  it  their  physic,  she  makes  it  her 
food:  her  sister  and  she  take  it  by  turn,  first  one,  then  the  other,  and  Vandome 
ministers  to  them  both. 

Mug.  How  sayest  thou  by  that  Helen  of  Greece  the  Countess's  sister  1 
here  were  a  paragon,  Monsieur  D'Olive,  to  admire  and  marry  too. 

D'Ol.    Not  for  me. 

Rhod.     No !  what  exceptions  lie  against  the  choice '? 

D^Ol.  Tush,  tell  me  not  of  choice  ;  if  I  stood  affected  that  way,  I  would 
choose  my  wife  as  men  do  valentines,  blindfold  or  draw  cuts  for  them,  for  so 
I  shall  be  sure  not  to  be  deceived  in  choosing;  for  take  this  of  me,  there's  ten 
times  more  deceit  in  women  than  in  horse  flesh ;  and  I  say  still,  that  a  pretty 
well-paced  chamber-maid  is  the  only  fashion ;  if  she  grows  full  or  fulsome, 
give  her  but  sixpence  to  buy  her  a  hand-basket,  and  send  her  the  way  of  ail 
flesh,  there's  no  more  but  so. 

Mug.     Indeed  that's  the  savingest  way. 

D'Ol.  O  me  !  what  a  hell  'tis  for  a  man  to  be  tied  to  the  continual  charge 
of  a  coach,  with  the  appurtenances,  horses,  men,  and  so  forth:  and  tlien  to 
have  a  man's  house  pestered  with  a  whole  country  of  guests,  grooms,  pan- 
ders, waiting  maids,  &c.  I  careful  to  please  my  wife,  she  careless  to  displease 
me;  shrewish  if  she  be  honest ;  intolerable  if  she  be  wise ;  imperious  as  an 
empress  ;  all  she  does  must  be  law,  all  she  says  gospel :  oh,  what  a  penance 
'tis  to  endure  her!  I  glad  to  forbear  still,  all  to  keep  her  loyal,  and  yet  per- 
haps when  all's  done,  my  heir  shall  be  like  my  horse-keeper :  Fie  on't !  the  very 
thought  of  marriage  were  able  to  cool  the  hottest  liver  in  France. 

Rhod.  Well,  I  durst  venture  twice  the  price  of  your  gilt  coney's  wool,  we 
shall  have  you  change  your  copy  ere  a  twelvemonth's  day. 


68  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

Mug.  We  must  have  you  dubb'd  o'  th'  order;  there's  no  remedy:  you  that 
have,  unmarried,  done  such  honourable  service  in  the  commonwealth,  must 
needs  receive  the  honour  due  to  't  in  mairiage. 

Rhod.     That  he  may  do,  and  never  marry. 

D'Ol.     As  how,  wits  1  I  'faith  as  how 'J 

Rhod.  For  if  he  can  prove  his  father  was  free  o'  th'  order,  and  that  he  was 
his  father's  son,  then,  by  the  laudable  custom  of  the  city,  he  may  be  a  cuckold 
by  his  father's  copy,  and  never  sei-ve  for  't. 

D'Ol     Ever  good,  i'faith  ! 

Mug.  Nay,  how  can  he  plead  that,  when  'tis  as  well  known  his  father 
died  a  bar.helor  1 

D^Ol.     Bitter,  in  verity,  bitter!     But  good  still  in  its  kind. 

Rhod.     Go  to,  we  must  have  you  follow  the  lantern  of  your  forefathers. 

Mug.     His  forefathers'?     'Sbody,  had  he  more  fathers  than  one  1 

D^Ol.  Why,  this  is  right :  here's  wit  canvast  out  on  's  coat,  into  's  jacket: 
the  string  sounds  ever  well,  that  rubs  not  too  much  o'  th'  frets :  I  must  love 
you,  wits,  I  must  take  pleasure  in  you.  Farewell,  good  wits:  you  know  my 
lodging,  make  an  errand  thither  now  and  then,  and  save  your  ordinary ;  do, 
wits,  do. 

Mug.    We  shall  be  troublesome  t'  ye. 

D^Ol.  O  God,  sir,  you  wrong  me,  to  think  I  can  be  troubled  with  wit: 
I  love  a  good  wit  as  I  love  myself:  if  you  need  a  brace  or  two  of  crowns  at 
any  time,  address  but  your  sonnet,  it  shall  be  as  sufficient  as  your  bond  at  all 
times:  I  carry  half  a  score  birds  in  a  cage,  shall  ever  remain  at  your  call. 
Farewell,  wits  ;  farewell,  good  wits.  [Exit. 

Rhod.  Farewell,  the  true  map  of  a  gull:  by  heaven  he  shall  to  th'  court ! 
'tis  the  perfect  model  of  an  impudent  upstart;  the  compound  of  a  poet  and  a 
lawyer ;  he  shall  sure  to  th'  court. 

Mvg.     Nay,  for  God's  sake,  let's  have  no  fools  at  court. 

jfikod.  He  shall  to  't,  that 's  certain.  The  duke  had  a  purpose  to  dispatch 
some  one  or  other  to  the  French  king,  to  entreat  him  to  send  for  the  body  of 
his  niece,  which  the  melancholy  Earl  of  St.  Anne,  her  husband,  hath  kept  so 
long  unburied,  as  meaning  one  grave  should  entomb  himself  and  her  together. 

Mug.  A  very  worthy  subject  for  an  embassage,  as  D'Olive  is  for  an  am- 
bassador agent ;  and  'tis  as  suitable  to  his  brain,  as  his  parcel-gilt  beaver  to  his 
fool's  head. 

Rhod.  Well,  it  shall  go  hard,  but  he  shall  be  employed.  Oh,  'tis  a  most 
accomplished  ass;  the  mongrel  of  a  gull,  and  a  villain  :  the  very  essence  of  liis 
soul  is  pure  villany;  the  substance  of  his  brain,  foolery;  one  that  believes  no- 
thing from  the  stars  upward;  a  pagan  in  belief,  an  epicure  beyond  belief;  pro- 
digious in  lust;  prodigal  in  wasteful  expense ;  in  necessary,  most  penurious. 
His  wit  is  to  admire  and  imitate;  his  grace  is  to  censure  and  detract;  he  shall 
to  th'  court,  i  faith  he  shall  thither:  I  will  shape  such  employment  for  him,  as 
that  he  himself  shall  have  no  less  contentment,  in  making  mirth  to  the  whole 
court,  than  the  Duke  and  the  whole  court  shall  have  pleasure  in  enjoying  his 
presence.  A  knave,  if  he  be  rich,  is  fit  to  make  an  officer,  us  a  fool,  if  he  be  a 
knave,  is  fit  to  make  an  intelligencer.  [Exeunt.^^ 


ON  MARSTON,  CHAPMAN,  DECKER,  AND  WEBSTER.    69 

His  '  May-day'  is  not  so  good.  '  All  Fools,'  the  '  Widow's 
Tears,'  and  '  Eastward  Hoe,'  are  comedies  of  great  merit,  par- 
ticularly the  last.  The  first  is  borrowed  a  good  deal  from  Te- 
rence, and  the  character  of  Valerio,  an  accomplished  rake,  who 
passes  with  his  father  for  the  person  of  the  greatest  economy  and 
rusticity  of  manners,  is  an  excellent  idea,  executed  with  spirit. 
*  Eastward  Hoe'  was  written  in  conjunction  with  Ben  Jonson 
and  Marston  ;  and  for  his  share  in  it,,  on  account  of  some  allusions 
to  the  Scotch,  just  after  the  accession  of  James  I.,  our  author, 
with  his  friends,  had  nearly  lost  his  ears.  Such  were  the  notions 
of  poetical  justice  in  those  days !  The  behaviour  of  Ben  Jonson's 
mother  on  this  occasion  is  remarkable.  "  On  his  release  from 
prison,  he  gave  an  entertainment  to  his  friends,  among  whom 
were  Camden  and  Selden.  In  the  midst  of  the  entertainment, 
his  mother,  more  an  antique  Roman  than  a  Briton,  drank  to  him, 
and  showed  him  a  paper  of  poison,  which  she  intended  to  have 
given  him  in  his  liquor,  having  first  taken  a  portion  of  it  herself, 
if  the  sentence  for  his  punishment  had  been  executed."  This 
play  contains  the  first  idea  of  Hogarth's  '  Idle  and  Industrious 
Apprentices. ' 

It  remains  for  me  to  say  something  of  Webster  and  Decker. 
For  these  two  writers  I  do  not  know  how  to  show  my  regard  and 
admiration  sufficiently.  Noble-minded  Webster,  gentle-hearted 
Decker,  how  may  I  hope  to  "  express  ye  unblam'd,"  and  repay 
to  your  neglected  manes  some  part  of  the  debt  of  gratitude  I  owe 
for  proud  and  soothing  recollections  ?  I  pass  by  the  '  Appius 
and  Virginia'  of  the  former,  which  is  however  a  good,  sensible, 
solid  tragedy,  cast  in  a  frame-work  of  the  most  approved  models, 
with  little  to  blame  or  praise  in  it,  except  the  affecting  speech  of 
Appius  to  Virginia  just  before  he  kills  her ;  as  well  as  Decker's 
'  Wonder  of  a  Kingdom,'  his  '  Jacomo  Gentili,'  that  truly  ideal 
character  of  a  magnificent  patron,  and  'Old  Fortunatus  and 
his  Wishing-cap,'  which  last  has  the  idle  garrulity  of  age,  with 
the  freshness  and  gaiety  of  youth  still  upon  its  cheek  and  in  its 
heart.  These  go  into  the  common  catalogue,  and  are  lost  in  the 
crowd;  but  Webster's  'Vittoria  Corombona'  I  cannot  so  soon 
part  with  ;  and  old  honest  Decker's  Siguier  Orlando  Friscobaldo 
I  shall  never  forget !     I  became  only  of  late  acquainted  with 


70  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

this  last-mentioned  worthy  character ;  but  the  bargain  between 
us  is,  I  trust,  for  life.  We  sometimes  regret  that  we  had  not 
sooner  met  with  characters  like  these,  that  seem  to  raise,  revive, 
and  give  a  new  zest  to  our  being.  Vain  the  complaint !  We 
should  never  have  known  their  value,  if  we  had  not  known  them 
always :  they  are  old,  very  old  acquaintance,  or  we  should  not 
'  recognize  them  at  first  sight.  We  only  find  in  books  what  is  al- 
ready written  within  "  the  red-leaved  tables  of  our  hearts." 
The  pregnant  materials  are  there;  "the  pangs,  the  internal 
pangs  arc  ready ;  and  poor  humanity's  afflicted  will  struggling 
in  vain  with  ruthless  destiny."  But  the  reading  of  fine  poetry 
may  indeed  open  the  bleeding  wounds,  or  pour  balm  and  conso- 
lation into  them,  or  sometimes  even  close  them  up  forever !  Let 
any  one  who  has  never  known  cruel  disappointment,  nor  com- 
fortable hopes,  read  the  first  scene  between  Orlando  and  Hippo- 
lito,  in  Decker's  play  of  the  '  Honest  Whore,'  and  he  will  see 
nothing  in  it.  But  1  think  few  persons  will  be  entirely  proof 
against  such  passages  as  some  of  the  fol  lowing : 

Cv\\'v  "  Etdcr  Orlando  Friscobaldo. 

Omnes.     Signior  Friscobaldo. 

Hippolito.  Friscobaldo,  oh !  pray  call  liim,  and  leave  me ;  we  two  have 
business. 

Carolo.     Ho,  Signior!    Signior  Friscobaldo,  the  Lord  Hippolito. 

[Exeunt. 

Orlando.  My  noble  Lord!  the  Lord  Hippolito!  The  Duke's  son!  his 
brave  daughter's  brave  husband!  How  does  your  honour'd  Lordship  1  Does 
your  nobility  remember  so  poor  a  gentleman  as  Signior  Orlando  Friscobaldo  1 
old  mad  Orlando  1 

Hip.  Oh,  sir,  our  friends,  they  ought  to  be  unto  us  as  our  jewels;  as 
dearly  valued,  being  locked  up  and  unseen,  as  when  we  wear  them  in  our 
hands.  I  see,  Friscobaldo,  age  hath  not  command  of  your  blood ;  for  all 
Time's  sickle  hath  gone  over  you,  you  are  Orlando  still. 

Orl.  Why,  my  Lord,  are  not  the  fields  mown  and  cut  down,  and  stript 
bare,  and  yet  wear  they  not  pied  coats  again  1  Though  my  head  be  like  a 
leek,  white,  may  not  my  heart  be  like  ihe  blade,  green  7 

Hip.     Scarce  can  I  read  the  stories  on  your  brow, 
Which  age  hath  writ  there  :  you  look  youthful  still. 

Orl.  I  eat  snakes,  my  Lord,  I  eat  snakes.  My  heart  shall  never  have  a 
wrinkle  in  it  so  long  as  I  can  cry  Hem!  with  a  clear  voice.  •         •         • 

Hip.    You  are  the  happier  man,  sir. 

Orl.    May  not  old  Friscobaldo,  my  Lord,  be  merry  now,  hal    I  have  a 


ON  MARSTON,  CHAPMAN,  DECKER,  AND  WEBSTER.   71 

little,  have  all  things,  have  nothing.     I  have  no  wife,  I  have  no  child,  have  no 
chick,  and  why  should  I  not  be  in  my  jocundare '? 

H'lp.     Is  your  wife  then  departed  1 

Orl.  She's  an  old  dweller  in  those  high  countries,  yet  not  from  me:  here, 
she's  here ;  a  good  couple  are  seldom  parted. 

Hip.     You  had  a  daughter,  too,  sir,  had  you  notl 

Oil.  Oh,  my  Lord!  this  old  tree  had  one  branch,  and  but  one  branch, 
growing  out  of  it:  it  was  young,  it  was  fair,  it  was  straight:  I  pruned  it 
daily,  drest  it  carefully,  kept  it  from  the  wind,  helped  it  to  the  sun ;  yet  for  all 
my  skill  in  planting,  it  grew  crooked,  it  bore  crabs :  I  hew'd  it  down.  What's 
become  of  it  I  neither  knov/  nor  care. 

Hip.     Then  can  I  tell  you  what's  become  of  it :  that  branch  is  withered. 

Orl.     So  'twas  long  ago. 

Hip.     Her  name,  I  think,  was  Bellafront ;  she's  dead. 

Orl     Ha!   dead'? 

Hip.  Yes,  what  of  her  was  left,  not  worth  the  keeping.  Even  in  my  sight, 
•was  thrown  into  a  grave. 

Orl.     Dead !  my  last  and  best  peace  go  with  her !     I  see  death's  a  good 

trencherman ;  he  can  eat  coarse  homely  meat  as  well  as  the  daintiest Is 

she  deadl 

Hip.     She's  turn'd  to  earth. 

Orl.  Would  she  were  turned  to  heaven.  Umh  !  Is  she  dead  1  I  am  glad 
the  world  has  lost  one  of  his  idols  :  no  whoremonger  will  at  midnight  beat  at 
the  doors  :  in  her  grave  sleep  all  my  shame  and  her  own ;  and  all  my  sorrows, 
and  all  her  sins. 

Hip.     I'm  glad  you  are  wax,  not  marble  ;  you  are  made 
Of  man's  best  temper;  there  are  now  good  hopes 
That  all  these  heaps  of  ice  about  your  heart, 
By  which  a  father's  love  was  frozen  up. 
Are  thaw'd  in  those  sweet  show'rs  fetch'd  from  your  eye: 
We  are  ne'er  like  angels  till  our  passions  die. 
She  is  not  dead,  but  lives  under  worse  fate ; 
I  think  she's  poor;  and  more  to  clip  her  wings 
Her  husband  at  this  hour  lies  in  the  jail, 
For  killing  of  a  man :  to  save  his  blood. 
Join  all  your  force  with  mine ;  mine  shall  be  shown, 
The  getting  of  his  life  preserves  your  own. 

Orl.  In  my  daughter  you  will  say!  Does  she  live,  then"?  I  am  sorry  I 
wasted  tears  upon  a  harlot!  but  the  best  is,  I  have  a  handkerchief  to  drink 
them  up,  soap  can  wash  them  all  out  again.     Is  she  poor  *? 

Hip.     Trust  me,  1  think  she  is. 

Orl.  Then  she's  a  right  strumpet.  I  never  knew  one  of  their  trade  rich 
two  years  together;  sieves  can  hold  no  water,  nor  harlots  hoard  up  money; 
taverns,  tailors,  bawds,  panders,  fiddlers,  swaggerei-s,  fools,  and  knaves,  do  all 
wait  upon  a  common  harlot's  trencher;  she  is  the  gallypot  to  which  these 
drones  fly :  not  for  love  to  the  pot,  but  for  the  sweet  sucket  in  it,  her  money, 
her  money. 


72  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

Hip.  I  almost  dare  pawn  my  word  her  bosom  gives  warmth  to  no  such 
snakes ;  when  did  you  see  her  1 

Orl.     Not  seventeen  summers. 

Hip.     Is  your  hate  so  old  1 

Orl.  Older ;  it  has  a  white  head,  and  shall  never  die  till  she  be  buried ;  her 
wrongs  shall  be  my  bedfellow. 

Hip.     Work  yet  his  life,  since  in  it  lives  her  fame. 

Orl.  No,  let  him  hang,  and  half  her  infamy  departs  out  of  the  world;  I 
hate  him  for  lier:  he  taught  her  first  to  taste  poison;  I  hate  her  for  herself,  be- 
cause she  refused  my  physic. 

Hip.     Nay,  but  Friscobaldo. 

Orl.     I  detest  her,  I  defy  both,  she's  not  mine,  she's 

Hip.     Hear  her,  but  speak. 

Orl.    I  love  no  mermaids,  I'll  not  be  caught  with  a  quail-pipe. 

Hip.  You're  now  beyond  all  reason.  Is't  dotage  to  relieve  your  child, 
being  poor  1 

Orl.  'Tis  foolery;  relieve  her  !  Were  her  cold  limbs  stretcht  out  upon  a 
bier,  I  would  not  sell  this  dirt  under  my  nails  to  buy  her  an  hour's  breath,  nor 
give  this  hair  unless  it  were  to  choke  her. 

Hip.     Fare  you  well,  for  I'll  trouble  you  no  more.  [Exit. 

Orl.  And  fare  you  well,  sir,  go  thy  ways  ;  we  have  few  lords  of  thy  mak- 
ing, that  love  wenches  for  their  honesty. — 'Las,  my  girl,  art  thou  poorl  Pov- 
erty dwells  next  door  to  despair,  there's  but  a  wall  between  them:  despair  is 
one  of  hell's  catchpoles,  and  lest  that  devil  arrest  her,  I'll  to  her;  yet  she  shall 
not  know  me:  she  shall  drink  of  my  wealth  as  beggars  do  of  running  water, 
freely;  yet  never  know  from  what  fountain's  head  it  flows.  Shall  a  silly  bird 
pick  her  own  breast  to  nourish  her  young  ones:  and  can  a  father  see  his  child 
starve '?     That  were  hard:  the  pelican  does  it,  and  shall  not  I  V 

The  rest  of  the  character  is  answerable  to  the  beginning.  The 
execution  is,  throughout,  as  exact  as  the  conception  is  new  and 
masterly.  There  is  the  least  colour  possible  used  ;  the  pencil 
drags ;  the  canvas  is  almost  seen  through :  but  then,  what  pre- 
cision of  outline,  what  truth  and  purity  of  tone,  what  firmness  of 
hand,  what  marking  of  character !  The  words  and  answers  all 
along  are  so  true  and  pertinent,  that  we  seem  to  see  the  gestures, 
and  to  hear  the  tone  with  which  they  are  accompanied.  So  when 
Orlando,  disguised,  says  to  his  daughter,  "  You'll  forgive  me," 
and  she  replies,  "I  am  not  marble,  I  forgive  you;"  or  again, 
when  she  introduces  him  to  her  husband,  saying  simply,  "  It  is 
my  father,"  there  needs  no  stage-direction  to  supply  the  relenting 
tones  of  voice  or  cordial  frankness  of  manner  witli  which  these 
words  are  spoken.     It  is  as  if  there  were  some  fine  art  to  chisel 


ON  MARSTON,  CHAPMAN,  DECKER,  AND  WEBSTER.    73 

thought,  and  to  embody  the  inmost  movements  of  the  mind  in 
every-day  actions  and  familiar  speech.     It  has  been  asked, 

"  Oh !  who  can  paint  a  sun-beam  to  the  blind, 
Or  make  him  feel  a  shadow  with  his  mindT' 

But  this  difficulty  is  here  in  a  manner  overcome.  Simplicity  and 
extravagance  of  style,  homeliness  and  quaintness,  tragedy  and 
comedy,  interchangeably  set  their  hands  and  seals  to  this  admir- 
able production.  We  find  the  simplicity  of  prose  with  the  graces 
of  poetry.  The  stalk  grows  out  of  the  ground  ;  but  the  flowers 
spread  their  flaunting  leaves  in  the  air.  The  mixture  of  levity 
in  the  chief  character  bespeaks  the  bitterness  from  which  it  seeks 
relief;  it  is  the  idle  echo  of  fixed  despair,  jealous  of  observation 
or  pity.  The  sarcasm  quivers  on  the  lip,  while  the  tear  stands 
congealed  on  the  eye-lid.  This  "  tough  senior,"  this  impracti- 
cable old  gentleman  softens  into  a  little  child ;  this  choke-pear 
melts  in  the  mouth  like  marmalade.  In  spite  of  his  resolute  pro- 
fessions of  misanthropy,  he  watches  over  his  daughter  with  kindly 
solicitude ;  plays  the  careful  housewife  ;  broods  over  her  lifeless 
hopes  ;  nurses  the  decay  of  her  husband's  fortune,  as  he  had 
supported  her  tottering  infancy ;  saves  the  high-flying  Matheo 
from  the  gallows  more  than  once,  and  is  twice  a  father  to  them. 
The  story  has  all  the  romance  of  private  life,  all  the  pathos  of 
bearing  up  against  silent  grief,  all  the  tenderness  of  concealed 
affection  : — there  is  much  sorrow  patiently  borne,  and  then  comes 
peace.  Bellafront,  in  the  two  parts  of  this  play  taken  together, 
is  a  most  interesting  character.  It  is  an  extreme,  and  I  am  afraid 
almost  an  ideal  case.  She  gives  the  play  its  title,  turns  out  a 
true  penitent,  that  is,  a  practical  one,  and  is  the  model  of  an  ex- 
emplary wife.  She  seems  intended  to  establish  the  converse  of 
the  position,  that  a  reformed  rake  makes  the  hest  hushand,  the  only 
difficulty  in  proving  which,  is,  I  suppose,  to  meet  with  the  charac- 
ter. The  change  of  her  relative  position,  with  regard  to  Hippolito, 
who,  in  the  first  part,  in  the  sanguine  enthusiasm  of  youthful 
generosity,  has  reclaimed  her  from  vice,  and  in  the  second  part, 
his  own  faith  and  love  of  virtue  having  been  impaired  with  the 
progress  of  years,  tries  in  vain  to  lure  her  back  again  to  her 
fcrmer  follies,  has  an  efTect  the  most  striking  and  beautiful.  The 
6 


74  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

pleadings  on  both  sides,  for  and  against  female  faith  and  con- 
stancy, are  managed  with  great  polemical  skill,  assisted  by  the 
grace  and  vividness  of  poetical  illustration.  As  an  instance  of 
the  manner  in  which  Bellafront  speaks  of  the  miseries  of  her 
former  situation,  "  and  she  has  felt  them  knowingly,"  I  might 
give  the  lines  in  which  she  contrasts  the  different  regard  shown 
to  the  modest  or  the  abandoned  of  her  sex : 

"  I  cannot,  seeing  she's  woven  of  such  bad  stuff, 

Set  colours  on  a  harlot  bad  enough. 

Toothing  did  make  me  when  I  lov'd  them  best, 

To  loath  them  more  than  this  :  when  in  the  street 

A.  fair,  young,  modest  damsel,  I  did  meet, 

She  seem'd  to  all  a  dove,  when  I  pass'd  by_ 

And  I  to  all  a  raven:  every  eye 

That  followed  her,  went  with  a  bashful  glance; 

At  me  each  bold  and  jeering  countenance 

Darted  forth  scorn :  to  her,  as  if  she  had  been 

Some  tower  unvanquished,  would  they  vail; 

'Gainst  me  swoln  rumour  hoisted  every  sail. 

She  crown'd  with  reverend  praises,  passed  by  them; 

I,  though  with  face  mask'd,  could  not  'scape  the  hem; 

For,  as  if  heav'n  had  set  strange  marks  on  whoreS, 

Because  they  should  be  pointing-stocks  to  man, 

Drest  up  in  civilest  shape,  a  courtesan. 

Let  her  walk  saint-like,  noteless,  and  unknown, 

Yet  she's  betray'd  by  some  trick  of  her  own." 

Perhaps  this  sort  of  appeal  to  matter  of  fact  and  popular  opin- 
ion, is  more  convincing  than  the  scholastic  subtleties  of  the  Lady 
in  'Comus.'  The  manner  too,  in  which  Infelice,  the  wife  of 
Hippolito,  is  made  acquainted  with  her  husband's  infidelity,  is 
finely  dramatic ;  and  in  the  scene  where  she  convicts  him  of  his 
injustice  by  taxing  herself  with  incontinence  fi/st,  and  then  turn- 
ing his  most  galling  reproaches  to  her  into  upbraidings  against 
his  own  conduct,  she  acquits  herself  with  infinite  spirit  and  address. 
The  contrivance  by  which,  in  the  first  part,  after  being  supposed 
dead,  she  is  restored  to  life,  and  married  to  Hippolito,  though 
perhaps  a  little  far-fetched,  is  affecting  and*  romantic.  There  is 
uncommon  beauty  in  the  Duke  her  father's  description  of  her 
sudden  illness.  In  reply  to  Infclice's  declaration  on  reviving, 
"  Tm  well,"  he  says, 


ON  MARSTON,  CHAPMAN,  DECKER,  AND  WEBSTER.  75 

"  Thou  wevt  not  so  e'en  now.     Sickness'  pale  hand 
Laid  hold  on  thee,  ev'n  in  the  mid&t  of  feasting: 
And  when  a  cup,  crown'd  with  thy  lover's  health, 
Had  touch'd  thy  lips,  a  sensible  cold  dew 
Stood  on  thy  cheeks,  as  if  that  death  had  wept 
To  see  such  beauty  altered." 

Candido,  the  good-natured  man  of  this  play,  is  a  character  of 
inconceivable  quaintness  and  simplicity.  His  patience  and  good- 
humour  cannot  be  disturbed  by  anything.  The  idea  (for  it  is 
nothing  but  an  idea)  is  a  droll  one,  and  is  well  supported.  He  is 
not  only  resigned  to  injuries,  but  "turns  them,"  as  Falstaff  says 
of  diseases,  "  into  commodities."  He  is  a  patient  Grizzel  out  of 
petticoats,  or  a  Petruchio  reversed.  He  is  as  determined  upon 
winking  at  affronts,  and  keeping  out  of  scrapes  at  all  events,  as 
the  hero  of  the  '  Taming  of  the  Shrew'  is  bent  upon  picking 
quarrels  out  of  straws,  and  signalizing  his  manhood  without  the 
smallest  provocation  to  do  so.  The  sudden  turn  of  the  character 
of  Candido,  on  his  second  marriage,  is,  however,  as  amusing  as 
it  is  unexpected. 

Matheo,  '•  the  high-flying"  husband  of  Bellafront,  is  a  master- 
ly  portrait,  done  with  equal  ease  and  effect.  He  is  a  person 
almost  without  virtue  or  vice,  that  is,  he  is  in  strictness  without 
any  moral  principle  at  all.  He  has  no  malice  against  others, 
and  no  concern  for  himself.  He  is  gay,  profligate,  and  unfeel- 
ing, governed  entirely  by  the  impulse  of  the  moment,  and  utterly 
reckless  of  consequences.  His  exclamation,  when  he  gets  a  new 
suit  of  velvet,  or  a  lucky  run  on  the  dice,  "  Do  we  not  fly  high," 
is  an  answer  to  all  arguments.  Punishment  or  advice  has  no 
more  effect  upon  him,  than  upon  the  moth  that  flies  into  the 
candle.  He  is  only  to  be  left  to  his  fate.  Orlando  saves  him 
from  it,  as  we  do  the  moth,  by  snatching  it  out  of  the  flame, 
throwing  it  out  of  the  window,  and  shutting  down  the  casement 
upon  it. 

Webster  would,  I  think,  be  a  greater  dramatic  genius  than 
Decker,  if  he  had  the  same  originality ;  and  perhaps  is  so,  even 
without  it.  His  '  White  Devil'  and  '  Duchess  of  Malfy,'  upon 
the  whole,  perhaps,  come  the  nearest  to  Shakspeare  of  anything 
we  have  upon  record ;  the  only  drawback  to  them,  the  only 
shade  of  imputation  than  can  be  thrown  upon  them,  "  by  which 


76  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

they  lose  some  colour,"  is,  that  they  are  too  like  Shakspeare, 
and  often  direct  imitations  of  him,  both  in  general  conception 
and  individual  expression.  So  far,  there  is  nobody  else  whom  it 
would  be  either  so  difficult  or  so  desirable  to  imitate ;  but  it 
would  have  been  still  better,  if  all  his  characters  had  been  en- 
tirely his  own,  had  stood  out  as  much  from  others,  resting  only 
on  their  own  naked  merits,  as  that  of  the  honest  Hidalgo,  on 
whose  praises  I  have  dwelt  so  much  above.  Decker  has,  I  think, 
more  truth  of  character,  more  instinctive  depth  of  sentiment, 
more  of  the  unconscious  simplicity  of  nature ;  but  he  does 
not,  out  of  his  own  stores,  clothe  his  subject  with  the  same 
richness  of  imagination,  or  the  same  glowing  colours  of  lan- 
guage. Decker  excels  in  giving  expression  to  habitual,  deep- 
ly-rooted feelings,  which  remain  pretty  much  the  same  in 
all  circumstances,  the  simple  uncompounded  elements  of  na- 
ture and  passion : — Webster  gives  more  scope  to  their  various 
combinations  and  changeable  aspects,  brings  them  into  dramatic 
play  by  contrast  and  comparison,  flings  them  into  a  state  of  fu- 
sion by  a  kindled  fancy,  makes  them  describe  a  wider  arc  of  os- 
cillation from  the  impulse  of  unbridled  passion,  and  carries  both 
terror  and  pity  to  a  more  painful  and  sometimes  unwarrantable 
excess.  Decker  is  contented  with  the  historic  picture  of  suflJer- 
ing ;  Webster  goes  on  to  suggest  horrible  imaginings.  The  pa- 
thos of  the  one  tells  home  and  for  itself;  the  other  adorns  his 
sentiments  with  some  image  of  tender  or  awful  beauty.  In  a 
word.  Decker  is  more  like  Chaucer  or  Boccaccio ;  as  Webster's 
mind  appears  to  have  been  cast  more  in  the  mould  of  Shakspcare's, 
as  well  naturally  as  from  studious  emulation.  The  Bcllafront 
and  Vittoria  Corombona  of  these  two  excellent  writers,  show  their 
difierent  powers  and  turn  of  mind.  The  one  is  all  softness;  the 
other  "  all  fire  and  air."  The  faithful  wife  of  Matheo  sits  at 
home  drooping,  "  like  the  female  dove,  the  whilst  her  golden  coup- 
lets  are  disclosed  ;"  while  the  insulted  and  persecuted  Victoria 
darts  killing  scorn  and  pernicious  beauty  at  her  enemies.  This 
White  Devil  (as  she  is  called)  is  made  fair  as  the  leprosy,  daz- 
zling as  the  lightning.  She  is  dressed  like  a  bride  in  her  wrongs 
and  her  revenge.  In  the  trial  scene  in  particular,  her  sudden 
indignant  answers  to  the  questions  that  are  asked  her,  startle  the 


ON  MARSTON,  CHAPMAN,  DECKER,  AND  WEBSTER.  77 


nearers.  Nothing  can  be  imagined  finer  than  the  whole  conduct 
and  conception  of  this  scene,  than  her  scorn  of  her  accusers  and 
of  herself.  The  sincerity  of  her  sense  of  guilt  triumphs  over  the 
hypocrisy  of  their  affected  and  official  contempt  for  it.  In  answer 
to  the  charge  of  having  received  letters  from  the  Duke  of  Bra- 
chiano,  she  says, 

"  Grant  I  was  tempted : — 

Condemn  you  me,  for  that  the  Duke  did  love  me  1 
So  may  you  blame  some  fair  and  crystal  river, 
For  that  some  melancholic  distracted  man 
Hath  drown'd  himself  in  't." 

And  again,  when  charged  with  bemg  accessary  to  her  hus- 
band's death,  and  showing  no  concern  for  it — 

"  She  comes  not  like  a  widow ;  she  comes  arm'd 

With  scorn  and  impudence.     Is  this  a  mourning  habit  V 

she  coolly  replies, 

"  Had  I  foreknown  his  death,  as  you  suggest, 
I  would  have  bespoke  my  mourning." 

In  the  closing  scene  with  her  cold-blooded  assassins,  Lodo- 
vico  and  Gasparo,  she  speaks  daggers,  and  might  almost  be  sup- 
posed to  exorcise  the  murdering  fiend  out  of  these  true  devils. 
Every  word  probes  to  the  quick.  The  whole  scene  is  the  sub- 
lime of  contempt  and  indifference. 

"  Vittoria.     If  Floi-ence  be  i'  the  Court,  he  would  not  kill  me. 

Ga^pnro.     Fool !  Princes  give  rewards  with  their  own  hands, 
But  death  or  punishment  by  the  hands  of  others. 

Loiov'co  (fo  Flamineo).    Siirah,  you  once  did  strike  me;  I'll  strike  you 
Unto  the  centre. 

Flam.     Thou'lt  do  it  like  a  hangman,  a  base  hangman, 
Not  like  a  noble  fellow,  for  thou  see'st 
I  cannot  strike  again. 

Lod.     Dost  laugh  1 

Flam.    Would'st  have  me  die,  as  I  was  born,  in  whining  1 

Gasp.     Recommend  yourself  to  Heaven. 

Flam.     No,  I  will  carry  mine  own  commendations  thither. 

Lod.     O  !  could  I  kill  you  forty  times  a-day. 
And  us?-  't  four  year  together,  'twere  too  little : 
Nought  grieves,  but  that  you  are  too  few  to  feed 
The  famine  of  our  vengeance.    What  do'st  think  onl 


78  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 


Flam.     Nothing;  of  nothing:  leave  thy  idle  questions — 
I  am  i'  ih'  way  to  study  a  long  silence. 
To  prate  were  idle:  I  remember  nothing; 
There's  nothing  of  so  infinite  vexation 
As  man's  own  thoughts. 

Lod.     O  thou  glorious  strumpet ! 
Could  I  divide  thy  breath  from  this  pure  air 
When  't  leaves  thy  body,  I  would  suck  it  up, 
And  breathe  't  upon  some  dunghill. 

Vit.  Cor.    You  my  death's-man  \ 
Methinks  thou  dost  not  look  horrid  enough ; 
Thou  hast  too  good  a  face  to  be  a  hangman: 
If  thou  be,  do  tliy  office  in  right  form ; 
Fall  down  upon  thy  knees,  and  ask  forgiveness. 

Lod.     O  !  thou  hast  been  a  most  prodigious  comet; 
But  I'll  cut  off  your  train  :  kill  the  Moor  first. 

Vit.  Cor.     You  shall  not  kill  her  first ;  behold  my  breast ; 
I  will  be  waited  on  in  death :  my  servant 
Shall  never  go  before  me. 

Gasp.     Are  you  so  brave  1 

Vit.  Cor.  Yes,  I  shall  welcome  death 
As  princes  do  some  great  embassadours ; 
I'll  meet  thy  weapon  half  way. 

Lod.     Thou  dost  not  tremble! 
Methinks,  fear  should  dissolve  thee  into  air. 

Vit.  Cor.     O,  thou  art  deceived,  I  am  too  true  a  woman! 
Conceit  can  never  kill  me.     I'll  tell  thee  what, 
I  will  not  in  my  death  shed  one  base  tear 
Or  if  look  pale,  for  want  of  blood,  not  fear. 

Gasp,  {to  Zanche).     Thou  art  my  task,  black  fury. 

Zanche.     I  have  blood 
As  red  as  either  of  theirs  !     Wilt  drink  some  1 
'Tis  good  for  the  falling  sickness  :  I  am  proud 
Death  cannot  alter  my  complexion, 
For  I  shall  ne'er  look  pale. 

Lod.     Strike,  strike, 
With  a  joint  motion. 

Vit.  Cor.     'Twas  a  manly  blow: 
The  next  thou  givest,  murther  some  sucking  infant. 
And  then  thou  wilt  be  famous." 

Such  are  some  of  the  terrible  graces  of  the  obscure,  forgotten 
Webster.  There  are  other  parts  of  this  play  of  a  less  violent, 
more  subdued,  and,  if  it  were  possible,  even  deeper  character  ; 
such  is  the  declaration  of  divorce  pronounced  by  Brachiano  on 
his  wife  : 


V.i 


ON  MARSTON,  CHAPMAN,  DECKER,  AND  WEBSTER.    79 

*•  Your  hand  I'll  kiss : 
This  is  the  latest  ceremony  of  my  love ; 
I'll  never  more  live  with  you,"  &;c. 

which  is  in  the  manner  of,  and  equal  to,  Decker's  finest  things  : 
— and  others,  in  a  quite  different  style  of  fanciful  poetry  and  be- 
wildered passion ;  such  as  the  lamentation  of  Cornelia,  his 
mother,  for  the  death  of  Marcello,  and  the  parting  scene  of 
Brachiano ;  which  would  be  as  fine  as  Shakspeare,  if  they  were 
not  in  a  great  measure  borrowed  from  his  inexhaustible  store. 
In  the  former,  after  Flamineo  has  stabbed  his  brother,  and  Hor-  j 
tensio  comes  in,  Cornelia  exclaims, 

"Alas  !  he  is  not  dead ;  he's  in  a  trance. 
Why,  here's  nobody  shall  get  anything  by  his  death : 
Let  me  call  him  again,  for  God's  sake. 

Hor.     I  would  you  were  deceived. 

Corn.  O  you  abuse  me,  you  abuse  me,  you  abuse  me !  How  many  have 
gone  away  thus,  for  lack  of  'tendance '?  Rear  up 's  head,  rear  up 's  head  :  his 
bleeding  inward  will  kill  him. 

Hor.     You  see  he  is  departed. 

Corn.  Let  me  come  to  him ;  give  me  him  as  he  is.  If  he  be  turned  to 
earth,  let  me  but  give  him  one  hearty  kiss,  and  you  shall  put  us  both  into  one 
coffin.  Fetch  a  looking-glass:  see  if  his  breath  will  not  stain  it;  or  pull  out 
some  feathers  from  my  pillow,  and  lay  them  to  his  lips.  Will  you  lose  him 
for  a  little  pains-taking"? 

Hor.     Your  kindest  office  is  to  pray  for  him. 

Corn.  Alas !  I  would  not  pray  for  him  yet.  He  may  live  to  lay  me  i'  th' 
ground,  and  pray  for  me,  if  you'll  let  me  come  to  him. 

Enter  Brachiano,  all  armed,  save  the  Bearer,  with  Flaminko  and  Page. 

Brack.    Was  this  your  handy- work  7 

Flam.     It  was  my  misfortune. 

Corn.  He  lies,  he  lies;  he  did  not  kill  him.  These  have  killed  him,  that 
would  not  let  him  be  better  looked  to. 

Brack.     Have  comfort,  my  grieved  mother. 

Corn.     O,  yon  screech-owl ! 

Hor.     Forbear,  good  madame. 

Com.     Let  me  go,  let  me  go. 

(iSAe  runs  to  Flamineo  witk  her  knife  drawn,  and  coming 

to  him,  lets  it  fall.) 
The  God  of  Heaven  forgive  thee  !     Dost  not  wonder 
I  pray  for  thee'?     I'll  tell  thee  what's  the  reason  : 
I  have  scarce  breath  to  number  twenty  minutes  ; 
I'd  not  spend  that  in  cursing.     Fare  thee  well ! 


THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 


Half  of  thyself  lies  there;  and  may'st  thou  live 
To  fill  an  hour-glass  with  his  moulder'd  ashes, 
To  tell  how  thou  should'st  spend  the  time  to  come 
In  b.est  repentance. 

Bnuh.     Mother,  pray  tell  me, 
How  came  he  by  his  death  %     What  was  the  quarrel  1 

Corn.     Indeed,  my  younger  boy  presumed  too  much 
Upon  his  manhood,  gave  him  bitter  words, 
Drew  his  sword  first ;  and  so,  I  know  not  how, 
For  I  was  out  of  my  wits,  he  fell  with  's  head 
Just  in  my  bosom. 

Page.     This  is  not  true,  madam. 

Corn.     I  pr'ythee,  peace. 
One  arrow's  graz'd  already:  it  were  vain 
To  lose  this;  for  that  will  ne'er  be  found  again." 

This  is  a  good  deal  borrowed  from  Lear  ;  but  the  inmost  folds 
of  the  human  heart,  the  sudden  turns  and  windings  of  the  fondest 
affection,  are  also  laid  open  with  so  masterly  and  original  a  hand, 
that  it  seems  to  prove  the  occasional  imitations  as  unnecessary  as 
they  are  evident.  The  scene  where  the  Duke  discovers  that  he 
is  poisoned,  is  as  follows,  and  equally  fine: 

"  Brack.     Oh  !  I  am  gone  already.     The  infection 
Flies  to  the  brain  and  heart.     O,  thou  strong  heart. 
There's  such  a  covenant  'tween  the  world  and  thee, 
They're  loth  to  part. 

Giovanni.     O  my  most  lov'd  father  ! 

Brack.     Remove  the  boy  away  : 
Where's  this  good  woman  1     Had  I  infinite  worlds, 
They  were  too  little  for  thee.     Must  I  leave  thee  1     (Tb  Vittoria.) 
What  say  you,  screech-owls  '?     {To  the  Physicians.')     Is  tlie  venom  mortal  1 

Pky.     Most  deadly. 

Brack.     Most  corrupted  politic  hangman  I 
You  kill  without  book;  but  your  art  to  save 
Fails  you  as  oft  as  great  men's  needy  friends: 
I  that  have  given  life  to  offending  slaves, 
And  wretched  murderers,  have  I  not  power 
To  lengthen  mine  own  a  twelve- month  ] 
Do  not  kiss  mc,  for  I  shall  poison  thee. 
This  unction  is  sent  from  the  great  Duke  of  Florence. 

Francesco  de  Medici  (m  dis.gnisn).     Sir,  be  of  comfort. 

Brack.     O  thou  soft  natural  death  !  that  art  joint-twin 
To  sweetest  slumber  ! — no  rougli-beardcd  comet 
Stares  on  thy  mild  departure  :  the  dull  owl 


ON  MARSTON,  CHAPMAN,  DECKER,  AND  WEBSTER.    81 

Beats  not  against  thy  casement:  the  hoarse  wolf 
Scents  not  thy  carrion.     Pity_wincls  ihy  corse, 
Whilst  honor  waits  on  princes. 
^'ViL  Cor.     I  amlost  for  ever. 

Brack.     How  miserable  a  thing  It  is  (o  die 
'Mongst  women  howling !    What  are  those  1 

Flam.     Franciscans. 
They  have  brought  the  extreme  unction. 

Bra/.h.     On  pain  of  death,  let  no  man  name  death  to  me : 
It  is  a  word  most  infinitely  terrible. 
Withdraw  into  our  cabinet." 

The  deception  practised  upon  him  by  Lodovico  and  Gasparo, 
who  offer  him  the  sacrament  in  the  disguise  of  Monk§,  and  then 
discover  themselves  to  damn  him,  is  truly  diabolical  and  ghastly. 
But  the  genius  that  suggested  it  was  as  profound  as  it  was  lofty. 
When  they  are  at  first  introduced,  Flamineo  says, 

"  See,  see  how  firmly  he  doth  fix  his  eye 
Upon  the  Crucifix." 

To  which  Vittoria  answers, 

"  Oh,  hold  it  constant: 
It  settles  his  wild  spirits ;  and  so  his  eyes 
Melt  into  tears." 

The    Dutchess  of  Malfy  is  not,   in   my  judgment,  quite  so  \ 
spirited  or  effectual  a  performance  as  the  White  Devil.     But  it 
is  distinguished  by  the  same   kind  of  beauties,  clad  in  the  same 
terrors.     I  do  not  know  but  the  occasional  strokes  of  passion  are 
even  profounder  and  more  Shakspearian ;  but  the  story  is  more 
laboured,  and  the  horror  is  accumulated  to  an  overpowering  and 
insupportable  height.     However  appalling  to  the  imagination  and 
fmely  done,  the  scenes  of  the  madhouse  to  which  the  Duchess  is 
condemned  with  a  view  to  unsettle  her  reason,  and  the  interview 
between  her  and  her  brother,  where  he  gives  her  the  supposed  ' 
dead  hand  of  her  husband,   exceed,   to  my  thinking,  the  just   \ 
bounds  of  poetry  and  of  tragedy.     At  least,  the  merit  is  of  a; 
kind   which,  however  great,  we  wish   to  be  rare.     A  series  of 
such  exhibitions  obtruded   upon  the  senses  or  the  imagination 
must  tend  to  stupefy  and  harden,  rather  than  to  exalt  the  fancy 


THE  AGE  OP  ELIZABETH. 


or  meliorate  the  heart.  I  speak  this  under  correction ;  but  I 
hope  the  objection  is  a  venial  common-place.  In  a  diflbrent  style 
altogether  are  the  directions  she  gives  about  her  children  in  hv 
last  strugfrles : 

DO 

"(j  pr'ythee,  look  thou  giv'st  my  little  boy 
Some  syrop  for  his  cold,  and  let  the  girl 
Say  her  pray'rs  ere  she  sleep.     JXow  what  death  you  please^" 

and  her  last  word,  "  Mercy,"  which  she  recovers  just  strength 
enough  to  pronounce  ;  her  proud  answer  to  her  tormentors,  who 
taunt  her  with  her  degradation  and  misery — "  But  I  am  Duchess 
of  Malfy  still"* — as  if  the  heart  rose  up,  like  a  serpent  coiled, 
to  resent  the  indignities  put  upon  it,  and  being  struck  at,  struck 
again  ;  and  the  staggering  reflection  her  brother  makes  on  her 
death,  "  Cover  her  face :  my  eyes  dazzle :  she  died  young  !'* 
Bosola  replies : 

"  I  think  not  so;  her  infelicity 
Seem'd  to  have  years  too  many. 

Ferdinand.     She  and  I  were  twins  : 
And  should  I  die  this  instant,  I  had  liv'd 
Her  time  to  a  minute." 

This  is  not  the  bandying  of  idle  words  and  rhetorical  common- 
places, out  the  writhing  and  conflict,  and  the  sublime  colloquy 
of  man's  nature  with  itself! 

The  '  Revenger's  Tragedy,'  by  Cyril  Tourneur,  is  the  only 
other  drama  equal  to  these  and  to  Shakspeare,  in  "  the  dazzling 
fence  of  impassioned  argument,"  in  pregnant  illustration,  and  in 
those  profound  reaches  of  thought  which  lay  open  the  soul  of 
feeling.  The  play,  on  the  whole,  does  not  answer  to  the  expec- 
tations it  excites ;  but  the  appeals  of  Castiza  to  her  mother,  who 
endeavours  to  corrupt  her  virtuous  resolutions,  "  Mother,  come 

♦  "  Am  I  not  the  Duchess  7 

Bo$oln.  Thou  art  some  great  woman,  sure ;  for  riot  begins  to  sit  on  thy 
forehead  (clad  in  grey  hairs)  twenty  years  sooner  than  on  a  merry  milkmaid's. 
Thou  slcep'st  worse  than  if  a  mouse  should  be  forced  to  take  up  his  lodging 
in  a  cat's  car :  a  little  infant  that  breeds  its  teeth,  should  it  lie  with  thee,  would 
cry  out,  as  if  thou  wert  the  more  unquiet  bed-fellow. 

Duck.     I  am  Duchess  of  Malfy  still." 


ON  MARSTON,  CHAPMAN,  DECKER,  AND  WEBSTER.    83 

from  that  poisonous  woman  there,"  with  others  of  the  like  kind, 
are  of  as  high  and  abstracted  an  essence  of  poetry,  as  any  of 
those  above  mentioned. 

In  short,  the  great  characteristic  of  the  elder  dramatic  writers 
is,  that  there  is  nothing  theatrical*  about  them.  In  reading  them 
you  only  think  how  the  persons,  into  whose  mouths  certain  sen- 
timents are  put,  would  have  spoken  or  looked :  in  reading  Dry- 
den  and  others  of  that  school,  you  only  think,  as  the  authors 
themselves  seem  to  have  done,  how  they  would  be  ranted  on  the 
stage  by  some  buskined  hero  or  tragedy-queen,  la  this  respect, 
indeed,  some  of  his  more  obscure  contemporaries  have  the  ad- 
vantage over  Shakspeare  himself,  inasmuch  as  we  have  never 
seen  their  works  represented  on  the  stage  ;  and  there  is  no  stage- 
trick  to  remind  us  of  it.  The  characters  of  their  heroes  have 
not  been  cut  down  to  fit  into  the  prompt-book,  nor  have  we  ever 
seen  their  names  flaring  in  the  play-bills  in  small  or  large  capi-  } 
tals. — I  do  not  mean  to  speak  disrespectfully  of  the  stage  ;  but  1  [ 
think  higher  still  of  nature,  and  next  to  that  of  books.  They  ^ 
are  the  nearest  to  our  thoughts :  they  wind  into  the  heart ;  the 
poet's  verse  slides  into  the  current  of  our  blood.  We  read  them 
when  young,  we  remember  them  when  old.  We  read  there  of 
what  has  happened  to  others ;  we  feel  that  it  has  happened  to 
ourselves.  They  are  to  be  had  everywhere  cheap  and  good. 
We  breathe  but  the  air  of  books :  we  owe  everything  to  their 
authors,  on  this  side  barbarism ;  and  we  pay  them  easily  with 
contempt,  while  living,  and  with  an  epitaph,  when  dead !  Mi- 
chael Angelo  is  beyond  the  Alps ;  Mrs.  Siddons  has  left  the 
stage  and  us  to  mourn  her  loss.  Were  it  not  so,  there  are 
neither  picture-galleries  nor  theatres-royal  on  Salisbury-plain, 
where  I  write  this ;  but  here,  even  here,  with  a  few  old  authors,  - 
I  can  manage  to  get  through  the  summer  or  the  winter  months, 
without  ever  knowing  what  it  is  to  feel  ennui.  They  sit  with  me 
at  breakfast ;  they  walk  out  with  me  before  dinner.  After  a 
long  walk  through  unfrequented  tracts,  after  starting  the  hare 
from  the  fern,  or  hearing  the  wing  of  the  raven  rustling  above 
my  head,  or  being  greeted  by  the  woodman's  "  stern  good-night," 
as  he  strikes  into  his  narrow  homeward  path,  I  can  "  take  mine 
ease  at  mine  inn,"  beside  the  blazing  hearth,  and  shake  hands 


84  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

with  Signor  Orlando  Friscobaldo,  as  the  oldest  acquaintance  I 
have.  Ben  Jonson,  learned  Chapman,  Master  Webster,  and 
Master  Heywood,  are  there  ;  and  seated  round,  discourse  the 
silent  hours  away.  Shakspeare  is  there  himself,  not  in  Gibber's 
manager's  coat.  Spenser  is  hardly  yet  returned  from  a  ramble 
through  the  woods,  or  is  concealed  behind  a  group  of  nymphs, 
fawns,  and  satyrs.  Milton  lies  on  the  table,  as  on  an  altar,  never 
taken  up  or  laid  down  without  reverence.  Lyly's  Endymion 
sleeps  with  the  Moon,  that  shines  in  at  the  window  ;  and  a  breath 
of  wind  stirring  at  a  distance  seems  a  sigh  from  the  tree  under 
which  he  grew  old.  Faustus  disputes  in  one  corner  of  the  room 
with  fiendish  faces,  and  reasons  of  divine  astrology.  Bcllafront 
soothes  Matheo,  Vittoria  triumphs  over  her  judges,  and  old 
Chapman  repeats  one  of  the  hymns  of  Homer,  in  his  own 
fine  translation !  I  should  have  no  objection  to  pass  my  life  in 
this  manner  out  of  the  world,  not  thinking  of  it,  nor  it  of  me ; 
neither  abused  by  my  enemies,  nor  defended  by  my  friends ; 
careless  of  the  future,  but  sometimes  dreaming  of  the  past, 
which  might  as  well  be  forgotten  !  Mr.  Wordsworth  has  ex- 
pressed this  sentiment  well  (perhaps  I  have  borrowed  it  from 
him) — 

"  Books,  dreams,  are  both  a  world  ;  and  books,  we  know, 
Are  a  substantial  world,  both  pure  and  good, 
Round  which,  with  tendrils  strong  as  flesh  and  blood, 
Our  pastime  and  our  happiness  niay  grow. 

*♦***♦ 

Two  let  me  mention  dearer  than  the  rest, 

The  gentle  lady  wedded  to  the  Moor, 

And  heavenly  Una  with  her  milk-white  Iamb. 

Bbssings  be  with  them  and  eternal  praise, 
The  poets,  who  on  earth  have  made  us  heirs  . 
Of  truth  and  pure  delight  in  deathless  lays. 
Oh,  might  my  name  be  number'd  among  theirs, 
Then  gladly  would  I  end  my  mortal  days !" 

I  have  no  sort  of  pretension  to  join  in  the  concluding  wish  of 
the  last  stanza;  but  I  trust  the  writer  feels  tliat  this  aspiration 
of  his  early  and  highest  ambition  is  already  not  unfulfilled  ! 


ON  BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER,  ETC.  85 


LECTURE  IV. 

On  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  Ben  Jonson,  Ford,  and  Massinger. 

Beaubiont  and  Fletcher,  with  all  their  prodigious  merits,  appear 
to  me  the  first  writers  who  in  some  measure  departed  from  the 
genuine  tragic  style  of  the  age  of  Shakspeare.  They  thought 
less  of  their  subject,  and  more  of  themselves,  than  some  others. 
They  had  a  great  and  unquestioned  command  over  the  stores 
both  of  fancy  and  passion ;  but  they  availed  themselves  too 
often  of  common-place  extravagances  and  theatrical  trick.  Men 
at  first  produce  effect  by  studying  nature,  and  afterwards  they 
look  at  nature  only  to  produce  effecrt*  It  is  the  same  in  the  his- 
tory of  other  arts,  and  of  other  pewoiSs  of  literature.  With  re- 
spect to  most  of  the  writers  of  this  age,  their  subject  was  their 
master.  Shakspeare  was  alone,  as  I  have  said  before,  master 
of  his  subject ;  but  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  were  the  first  who 
made  a  play-thing  of  it,  or  a  convenient  vehicle  for  the  display 
of  their  own  powers.  The  example  of  preceding  or  contempo- 
rary writers  had  given  them  facility ;  the  frequency  of  dramatic 
exhibition  had  advanced  the  popular  taste ;  and  this  facility  of 
production,  and  the  necessity  for  appealing  to  popular  applause, 
tended  to  vitiate  their  own  taste,  and  to  make  them  willing  to 
pamper  that  of  the  public  for  novelty  and  extraordinary  eiTect. 
There  wants  something  of  the  sincerity  and  modesty  of  the 
older  writers.  They  do  not  wait  nature's  time,  or  work  out  her 
materials  patiently  and  faithfully,  but  try  to  anticipate  her,  and 
so  far  defeat  themselves.  They  would  have  a  catastrophe  in 
every  scene  ;  so  that  you  have  none  at  last :  they  would  raise 
admiration  to  its  height  in  every  line  ;  so  that  the  impression  of 
the  whole  is  comparatively  loose  and  desultory.  They  pitch 
the  characters  at  first  in  too  high  a  key,  and  exhaust  themselves 
by  the  eagerness  and  impatience  of  their  efforts.  We  find  all 
tiie  prodigality  of  youth,  the  confidence  inspired  by  success,  an 
enthusiasm  bordering  on  extravagance,  richness  running  riot, 


dS  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

beauty  dissolving  in  its  own  sweetness.  They  are  like  heirs 
just  come  to  their  estates,  like  lovers  in  the  honey-moon.  In  the 
economy  of  nature's  gifts  they  "  misuse  the  bounteous  Pan,  and 
thank  the  Gods  amiss."  Their  productions  shoot  up  in  haste, 
but  bear  the  marks  of  precocity  and  premature  decay.  Or  they 
are  two  goodly  trees,  the  stateliest  of  the  forest,  crowned  with 
blossoms,  and  with  the  verdure  springing  at  their  feet ;  but  they 
do  not  strike  their  roots  far  enough  into  the  ground,  and  the  fruit 
can  hardly  ripen  for  the  flowers ! 

It  cannot  be  denied  that  they  are  lyrical  and  descriptive 
poets,  of  the  highest  order ;  every  page  of  their  writings  is  a 
Jlorilegium  :  they  are  dramatic  poets  of  the  second  class,  in  point 
of  knowledge,  variety,  vivacity,  and  effect ;  there  is  hardly  a 
passion,  character,  or  situation,  which  they  have  not  touched  in 
their  devious  range,  and  whatever  they  touched  they  adorned 
with  some  new  grace  or  striking  feature :  they  are  masters  of 
style  and  versification  in  almost  every  variety  of  melting  modu- 
lation or  sounding-  pomp,  of  which  they  are  capable  :  in  comic 
wit  and  spirit,  they  are  scarcely  surpassed  by  any  writers  of 
any  age.  There  they  are  in  their  element,  "  like  eagles  newly 
baited  ;"  but  I  speak  rather  of  their  serious  poetry;  and  this,  1 
apprehend,  with  all  its  richness,  sweetness,  loftiness,  and  grace, 
wants  something — stimulates  more  than  it  gratifies,  and  leaves 
the  mind  in  a  certain  sense  exhausted  and  unsatisfied.  Their 
fault  is  a  too  ostentatious  and  indiscriminate  display  of  power. 
Everything  seems  in  a  state  of  fermentation  and  effervescence, 
and  not  to  have  settled  and  found  its  centre  in  their  minds.  The 
ornaments,  through  neglect  or  abundance,  do  not  always  appear 
sufficiently  appropriate  :  there  is  evidently  a  rich  wardrobe  of 
words  and  images,  to  set  off  any  sentiments  that  occur,  but  not 
equal  felicity  in  the  choice  of  the  sentiments  to  be  expressed  ; 
the  characters  in  general  do  not  take  a  substantial  form,  or  excite 
a  growing  interest,  or  leave  a  permanent  impression ;  the  passion 
does  not  accumulate  by  the  force  of  time,  of  circumstances,  and  ha- 
bit, but  wastes  itself  in  the  first  ebullitions  of  surprise  and  novelty. 

Besides  these  more  critical  objections,  there  is  a  too  frequent 
mixture  of  voluptuous  softness  or  effeminacy  of  character  with 
horror  in  the  subjects,  a  conscious  weakness  (I  can  hardly  think 


ON  BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER,  BEN  JONSON,  ETC.    87 

it  wantonness)  of  moral  constitution  struggling  with  wilful  and 
violent  situations,  like  the  tender  wings  of  tiie  moth,  attracted 
to  the  flame  that  dazzles  and  consumes  it.     In  the  hey-day  of 
their  youthful  ardour,  and  the  intoxication  of  their  animal  spirits, 
they  take  a  perverse  delight  in  tearing  up  some  rooted  sentiment, 
to  make  a  mawkish  lamentation  over  it ;  and  fondly  and  gratui- 
tously cast  the  seeds  of  crimes  into  forbidden  grounds,  to  see  how 
they  will  shoot  up  and  vegetate  into  luxuriance,  to  catch  the  eye 
of  fancy.     They  are  not  safe  teachers  of  morality  :  they  tamper 
with  it,  like  an  experiment  tried  in  corpore  vili ;  and  seem  to  re- 
gard the  decomposition  of  the  common  affections,  and  the  disso- 
lution of  the  strict  bonds  of  society,  as  an  agreeable  study  and  a 
careless  pastime.     The  tone  of  Shakspeare's  writings  is  manly 
and  bracing ;  theirs  is  at  once  insipid  and  meretricious,  in  the 
comparison.     Shakspeare  never  disturbs  the  grounds  of  moral 
principle ;   but  leaves  his  characters  (after  doing  them   heaped 
justice  on  all  sides)  to  be  judged  of  by  our  common  sense  and 
natural   feeling.      Beaumont  and  Fletcher  constantly  bring  in 
equivocal  sentiments  and  characters,  as  if  to  set  them  up  to  be 
debated  by  sophistical  casuistry,  or  varnished  over  with  the  colours 
of  poetical  ingenuity.     Or  Shakspeare  may  be  said  to  "  cast  the 
diseases  of  the  mind,  only  to  restore  it  to  a  sound  and  pristine 
health:"  the  dramatic  paradoxes  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  are, 
to  all  appearance,  tinctured  with  an  infusion  of  personal  vanity 
and  laxity  of  principle.     I  do  not  say  that  this  was  the  character 
of  the  men  ;  but  it  strikes  me  as  the  character  of  their  minds. 
The  two  things  are  very  distinct.     The  greatest  purits  (hypo- 
crisy   apart)    are    often    free   livers ;    and    some   of  the    most 
unguarded     professors    of    a    general    licence     of   behaviour, 
have  been  the  last  persons  to  take  the  benefit  of  their  own  doc- 
trine, from  which  they  reap  nothing,  but  the  obloquy,  and  the 
pleasure  of  startling  their  "  wonder-wounded"  hearers.     There 
is  a  division  of  labour,  even  in  vice.     Some  persons  addict  them- 
selves to  the  speculation  only,  others  to  the  practice.    The  peccant 
humours  of  the  body  or  the  mind  break  out  in  different  ways. 
One  man  sows  his  wild  oats  in  his  neighbour's  field :  another  on 
Mount  Parnassus  ;  from  whence,  borne  on  the  breath  of  fame, 
they  raay  hope  to  spread  and  fructify  to  distant  times  and  re- 


THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 


gions.  Of  the  latter  class  were  our  poets,  who,  I  believe,  led 
unexceptionable  lives,  and  only  indulged  their  imaginations  in 
occasional  unwarrantable  liberties  with  the  Muses.  What  makes 
them  more  inexcusable,  and  confirms  this  charge  against  them, 
is,  that  they  are  always  abusing  "  wanton  poets,"  as  if  willing 
to  shift  suspicion  from  themselves. 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher  were  the  first,  also,  who  laid  the 
foundation  of  the  artificial  diction  and  tinselled  pomp  of  the  next 
generation  of  poets,  by  aiming  at  a  profusion  of  ambitious  orna- 
ments, and  by  translating  the  commonest  circumstances  into  the 
language  of  metaphor  and  passion.  It  is  this  misplaced  and  in- 
ordinate craving  after  strikinjr  effect  and  continual  excitement 
that  had  at  one  time  rendered  our  poetry  the  most  vapid  of  all 
.things,  by  not  leaving  the  moulds  of  poetic  diction  to  be  filled  up 
by  the  overflowings  of  nature  and  passion,  but  by  swelling  out 
ordinary  and  unmeaning  topics  to  certain  preconceived  and  in- 
dispensable standards  of  poetical  elevation  and  grandeur. — I 
shall  endeavour  to  confirm  this  praise,  mixed  with  unwilling 
blame,  by  remarking  on  a  few  of  their  principal  tragedies.  If 
I  have  done  them  injustice,  the  resplendent  passages  I  have  to 
'quote  will  set  everything  to  rights. 

The  '  Maid's  Tragedy'  is  one  of  the  poorest.  The  nature  of 
the  distress  is  of  the  most  disagreeable  and  repulsive  kind ;  and 
not  the  less  so  because  it  is  entirely  improbable  and  uncalled  for. 
There  is  no  sort  of  reason,  or  no  suOicient  reason  to  the  reader's 
mind,  why  the  king  should  marry  off  his  mistress  to  one  of  his 
courtiers,  why  he  should  pitch  upon  the  worthiest  for  this  pur- 
pose, why  he  should,  by  such  a  choice,  break  off  Amintor's 
match  with  the  sister  of  another  principal  support  of  his  throne 
(whose  death  is  the  consequence),  why  he  should  insist  on  the 
inviolable  fidelity  of  his  former  mistress  to  him  after  she  is  mar- 
ried, and  why  her  husband  should  thus  inevitably  be  made  ac- 
quainted with  his  dishonour,  and  roused  to  madness  and  revenge, 
except  the  mere  love  of  mischief  and  gratuitous  delight  in  tor- 
turing the  feelings  of  others,  and  tempting  one's  own  fate.  The 
character  of  Evadne,  however,  her  naked,  unblushing  impu- 
dence, the  mixture  of  folly  with  vice,  her  utter  insensibility  to 
any  motive  but  her  own  pride  and  inclination,  her  heroic  su- 


ON  BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER,  BEN  JONSON,  ETC.    89 

periority  to  any  signs  of  shame  or  scruples  of  conscience  from  a 
recollection  of  what  is  due  to  herself  or  others,  are  well  described, 
and  the  lady  is  true  to  herself  in  her  repentance,  which  is  owing 
to  nothing  but  the  accidental  impulse  and  whim  of  the  moment. 
The  deliberate,  voluntary  disregard  of  all  moral  ties  and  all 
pretence  to  virtue,  in  the  structure  of  the  fable,  is  nearly  unac- 
countable. Amintor  (who  is  meant  to  be  the  «hero  of  the  piece) 
is  a  feeble,  irresolute  character  :  his  slavish,  recanting  loyalty  to 
his  prince,  who  has  betrayed  and  dishonoured  him,  is  of  a  piece 
with  the  tyranny  and  insolence  of  which  he  is  made  the  sport ; 
and  even  his  tardy  revenge  is  snatched  from  his  hands,  and  he 
kills  his  former  betrothed  and  beloved  mistress,  instead  of  exe- 
cuting vengeance  on  the  man  who  has  destroyed  his  peace  of 
mind  and  unsettled  her  intellects.  The  king,  however,  meets 
his  fate  from  the  penitent  fury  of  Evadne ;  and  on  this  account, 
the  *  Maid's  Tragedy'  was  forbidden  to  be  acted  in  the  reign  of 
Charles  II.,  as  countenancing  the  doctrine  of  regicide.  Aspatia 
is  a  beautiful  sketch  of  resigned  and  heart-broken  melancholy  ; 
and  Calianax,  a  blunt,  satirical  courtier,  is  a  character  of  much 
humour  and  novelty.  There  are  striking  passages  here  and 
there,  but  fewer  than  in  almost  any  of  their  plays.  Amintor's 
speech  to  Evadne,  when  she  makes  confession  of  her  unlooked- 
for  remorse,  is,  I  think,  the  finest : 

"  Do  not  mock  me : 


Though  I  am  tame,  and  bred  up  with  my  wrongs, 
Which  are  my  foster-brothers,  I  may  leap, 
Like  a  hand-wolf,  into  my  natural  wildness. 
And  do  an  outrage.     Prithee,  do  not  mock  me  !" 

*  King  and  No  King,'  which  is  on  a  strangely  chosen  subject 
as  strangely  treated,  is  very  superior  in  power  and  effect.  There 
is  an  unexpected  reservation  in  the  plot,  which,  in  some  measure, 
relieves  the  painfulness  of  the  impression.  Arbaces  is  painted 
in  gorgeous,  but  not  alluring  colours.  His  vain-glorious  pre- 
tensions and  impatience  of  contradiction  are  admirably  displayed, 
and  are  so  managed  as  to  produce  an  involuntary  comic  effect 
to  temper  the  lofty  tone  of  tragedy,  particularly  in  the  scenes  in 
which  he  affects  to  treat  his  vanquished  enemy  with  such  con- 
7 


90  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

descending  kindness  ;  and  perhaps  this  display  of  upstart  pride 
was  meant  by  the  authors  as  an  oblique  satire  on  his  low  origin, 
which  is  afterwards  discovered.  His  pride  of  self  will  and  fierce 
impetuosity  are  the  same  in  war  and  in  love.  The  haughty 
voluptuousness  and  pampered  efteminacy  of  his  character  admit 
neither  respect  for  his  misfortunes,  nor  pity  for  his  errors.  His 
ambition  is  a  fever  in  the  blood  ;  and  his  love  is  a  sudden  trans- 
port of  ungovernable  caprice  that  brooks  no  restraint,  and  is  in- 
toxicafed  with  the  lust  of  power,  even  in  the  lap  of  pleasure,  and 
the  sanctuary  of  the  affections.  The  passion  of  Panthea  is,  as 
it  were,  a  reflection  from,  and  lighted  at  the  shrine  of  her  lover's 
flagrant  vanity.  In  the  elevation  of  his  rank,  and  in  the  con- 
sciousness of  his  personal  accomplishments,  he  seems  firmly 
persuaded  (and  by  sympathy  to  persuade  others)  that  there  is 
nothing  in  the  world  which  can  be  an  object  of  liking  or  admira- 
tion but  hicnself.  The  first  birth  and  declaration  of  this  perverted 
sentiment  to  himself,  when  he  meets  with  Panthea  after  his  return 
from  conquest,  fostered  by  his  presumptuous  infatuation  and  the 
heat  of  his  inflammable  passions,  and  the  fierce  and  lordly  tone 
in  which  he  repels  the  suggestion  of  the  natural  obstacles  to  his 
sudden  phrenzy,  are  in  Beaumont  and  Fletcher's  most  daring 
manner  ;  but  the  rest  is  not  equal.  What  may  be  called  the 
love  scenes  are  equally  gross  and  common-place  ;  and  instead 
of  any  thing  like  delicacy  or  a  struggle  of  different  feelings, 
have  all  the  indecency  and  familiarity  of  a  brothel.  Bessus,  a 
comic  character  in  this  play,  is  a  swaggering  coward,  something 
between  Parolles  and  Falstaff. 

The  '  False  One'  is  an  indirect  imitation  of  Antony  and  Cleo- 
patra. We  have  Scptimius  for  CEnobarbus,  and  Caesar  for 
Antony.  Cleopatra  herself  is  represented  in  her  girlish  state, 
but  she  is  made  divine  in 

"  Youth  that  opens  like  perpetual  spring," 

and  promises  the  rich  harvest  of  love  and  pleasure  that  succeeds 
it.  Her  first  presenting  herself  before  Caesar,  when  she  is  brought 
in  by  Sceva,  and  the  impression  she  makes  upon  him,  like  a 
vision  dropped  from  the  clouds,  or 

"  Like  some  celestial  sweetness,  the  ti-casure  of  soft  love," 


ON  BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER,  BEN  JONSON,  ETC.     91 

are  exquisitely  conceived.  Photinus  is  an  accomplished  villain, 
well-read  in  crooked  policy  and  quirks  of  stale  ;  and  the  descrip- 
tion of  Pompey  has  a  solemnity  and  grandeur  worthy  of  his  un- 
fortunate end.     Septimius  says,  bringing  in  his  lifeless  head, 

"  'Tis  here,  'tis  done  !     Behold,  you  fearful  viewers, 
•  Shake,  and  behold  the  model  of  the  world  here, 
The  pride  and  strength !  Look,  look  again,  'tis  finished! 
That  that  whole  armies,  nay,  whole  nations. 
Many  and  mighty  kings,  have  been  struck  blind  at, 
And  fled  before,  wing'd  with  their  fears  and  terrors, 
That  steel  War  waited  on,  and  fortune  courted, 
That  high-plum'd  Honour  built  up  for  her  own; 
Behold  that  mightiness,  behold  that  fierceness, 
Behold  that  child  of  war,  with  all  his  glories. 
By  this  poor  hand  made  breathless  J" 

And  again  Csesar  says  of  him,  who  was  his  mortal  enemy  (it 
was  not  held  in  the  fashion  in  those  days,  nor  will  it  be  held  so 
in  time  to  come,  to  lampoon  those  whom  you  have  vanquished) — 

"  Oh,  thou  conqueror. 


Thou  glory  of  the  world  once,  now  the  pity, 

Thou  awe  of  nations,  wherefore  didst  thou  fall  thus  1 

What  poor  fate  followed  thee,  and  plucked  thee  on 

To  trust  thy  sacred  life  to  an  Egyptian  1 

The  life  and  light  of  Rome  to  a  blind  stranger, 

That  honourable  war  ne'er  taught  a  nobleness, 

Nor  worthy  circumstance  show'd  what  a  man  wasi 

That  never  heard  thy  name  sung  but  in  banquets. 

And  loose  lascivious  pleasures? — to  a  boy. 

That  had  no  faith  to  comprehend  thy  greatness,  ^ 

No  study  of  thy  life  to  know  thy  goodness). 

Egyptians,  do  you  think  your  highest  pyramids,^ 

Built  to  outdure  the  sun,  as  you  suppose. 

Where  your  unworthy  kings  lie  raked  in  ashes, 

Are  monuments  fit  for  him !     No,  brood  of  Nilus, 

Nothing  can  cover  his  high  fame  but  heaven; 

No  pyramids  set  off  his  memories. 

But  the  eternal  substance  of  his  greatness, 

To  which  I  leave  him." 

It  is  somethincr  worth  livino-  for,  to  write  or  even  read  such 
poetry  as  this  is,  or  to  know  that  it  has  been  written,  or  that  there 
have  been  subjects  on  which  to  write  it ! — This,  of  all  Beaumont 


93  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

and  Fletcher's  plays,  comes  the  nearest  in  style  and  manner  to 
Shakspeare,  not  excepting  tiie  first  act  of  the  '  Two  Noble  Kins- 
men,' which  has  been  sometimes  attributed  to  him. 
/  The  *  Faithful  Shepherdess,'  by  Fletcher  alone,  is  "a  per- 
'  petual  feast  of  nectar'd  sweets,  where  no  crude  surfeit  reigns." 
The  author  has  in  it  given  a  loose  to  his  fancy,  and  his  fancy 
was  his  most  delightful  and  genial  quality,  where,  to  use  his  own 
words, 

"  He  takes  most  ease,  and  grows  ambitious 
Thro'  his  own  wanton  fire  and  pride  delicious." 

'  The  songs  and  lyrical  descriptions  throughout  are  luxuriant 
and  delicate  in  a  high  degree.  He  came  near  to  Spenser  in  a 
certain  tender  and  voluptuous  sense  of  natural  beauty  ;  he  came 
near  to  Shakspeare  in  the  playful  and  fantastic  expression  of  it. 
The  whole  composition  is  an  exquisite  union  of  dramatic  and 
pastoral  poetry ;  where  the  local  descriptions  receive  a  tincture 
from  the  sentiments  and  purposes  of  the  speaker,  and  each  char- 
acter, cradled  in  the  lap  of  nature,  paints  "  her  virgin  fancies 
wild"  with  romantic  grace  and  classic  elegance. 

The  place  and  its  employments  are  thus  described  by  Chloe 
to  Thenot : 

"  Here  be  woods  as  green 

As  any,  air  likewise  as  fresh  and  sweet 
As  where  smooth  Zephyrus  plays  on  the  fleet 
Face  of  the  curled  stream,  with  flow'rs  as  many 
As  the  young  spring  gives,  and  as  choice  as  any; 
Here  be  all  new  delights,  cool  streams  and  wells, 
Arbours  o'ergrown  with  woodbine;  caves,  and  dells; 
Chuse  where  thou  wilt,  while  I  sit  by  and  sing, 
Or  gather  rushes,  to  make  many  a  ring 
For  thy  long  fingers;  tell  thee  tales  of  love, 
How  the  pale  Phoebe,  hnnting  in  a  grove, 
First  saw  the  boy  Endymion,  from  whose  eyes 
She  took  eternal  fire  that  never  dies; 
How  she  conveyed  him  sofily  in  a  sleep, 
His  temples  bound  with  poppy,  to  the  steep 
Head  of  old  Latmos,  where  she  stoops  each  night, 
Gilding  the  mountain  with  her  brother's  light, 
To  kiss  her  sweetest." 


ON  BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER,  BEN  JONSON,  ETC.      93 


There  are  hw  things  that  ca,n  surpass  in  truth  and  beauty  of 
allegorical  description  the  invocation  of  Amaryllis  to  the  God  of 
Shepherds,  Pan,  to  save  her  from  the  violence  of  the  Sullen 
Shepherd,  for  Syrinx's  sake  : 


'*  For  her  dear  sake, 


That  loves  the  rivers'  brinks,  and  still  doth  shake 
In  cold  remembrance  of  thy  qiiick  pursuit !" 

Or  again,  the  friendly  Satyr  promises  Clorin — 

"  Brightest,  if  there  be  remaining 

Any  service,  without  feigning 

I  will  do  it ;  were  I  set 
{  To  catch  the  nimble  wind,  or  get 
'  Shadows  gliding  on  the  green.'' 

It  would  be  a  task  no  less  difficult  than  this,  to  follow  the  flight 
of  the  poet's  Muse,  or  catch  her  fleeting  graces,  fluttering  her 
golden  wings,  and  singing  in  notes  angelical  of  youth,  of  love, 
and  joy  ! 

There  is  only  one  affected  and  ridiculous  character  in  this 
drama,  that  of  Thenot  in  love  with  Clorin.  He  is  attached  to 
her  for  her  inviolable  fidelity  to  her  buried  husband,  and  wishes 
her  not  to  grant  his  suit,  lest  it  should  put  an  end  to  his  passion. 
Thus  he  pleads  to  her  against  himself: — 

"  If  you  yield,  I  die 

To  all  affection  ;  'tis  that  loyalty 
You  tie  unto  this  grave  I  so  admire ; 
And  yet  there's  something  else  I  would  desire, 
If  you  would  hear  me,  but  withal  deny. 
Oh  Pan,  what  an  uncertain  destiny 
Hangs  over  all  my  hopes  !     I  will  retire; 
For  if  I  longer  stay,  this  double  fire 
Will  lick  my  life  up." 

This  is  paltry  quibbling.  It  is  spurious  logic,  not  genuine 
feeling.  A  pedant  may  hang  his  affections  on  the  point  of  a 
dilemma  in  this  manner;  but  nature  does  not  sophisticate;  or 
when  she  does,  it  is  to  gain  her  ends,  not  to  defeat  them. 

The  Sullen  Shepherd  turns  out  too  dark  a  character  in  the 


94  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

end,  and  gives  a  shock  to  the  gentle  and  pleasing  sentiments  in- 
spired throughout. 

The  resemblance  of  Comus  to  this  poem  is  not  so  great  as  has 
been  sometimes  contended,  nor  are  the  particular  allusions  im- 
portant or  frequent.  Whatever  Milton  copied,  he  made  his  own. 
In  reading  the  Faithful  Shepherdess,  we  find  ourselves  breathing 
the  moonlight  air  under  the  cope  of  heaven,  and  wander  by 
forest  side  or  fountain,  among  fresh  dews  and  flowers,  following 
our  vao-rant  fancies,  or  smit  with  the  love  of  nature's  works. 
In  reading  Milton's  Comus,  and  most  of  his  other  works,  we  seem 
to  be  entering  a  lofty  dome  raised  over  our  heads  and  ascending 
to  the  skies,  and  as  if  Nature  and  everything  in  it  were  but  a 
temple  and  an  image  consecrated  by  the  poet's  art  to  the  worship 
of  virtue  and  true  religion.  The  speech  of  Clorin,  after  she  has 
been  alarmed  by  the  Satyr,  is  the  only  one  of  which  Milton  has 
made  a  free  use  : 

"  And  all  my  fears  go  with  thee. 

What  greatness  or  what  private  hidden  power 

Is  there  in  me  to  draw  submission 

From  this  rude  man  and  beast  1     Sure  I  am  mortal: 

The  daughter  of  a  shepherd  ;  he  was  mortal 

And  she  that  bore  me  mortal ;   prick  my  hand, 

And  it  will  bleed,  a  fever  shtikes  me,  and 

The  self-same  wind  that  makes  the  young  lamb  shrink, 

Makes  me  a-cold :  my  fear  says,  I  am  mortal. 

Yet  I  have  heard  (my  mother  told  it  mc, 

And  now  I  do  believe  it,)  if  I  keep 

My  virgin  flow'r  uncropt,  pure,  chaste,  and  fair. 

No  goblin,  wood-god,  fairy,  elf,  or  fiend, 

Satyr,  or  other  power  that  haunts  the  groves, 

Shall  hurt  my  body,  or  by  vain  illusion 

Draw  me  to  wander  after  idle  fires ; 

Or  voices  calling  me  in  dead  of  night 

To  make  me  follow,  and  so  tole  me  on 

Thro'  mire  and  standing  pools  to  find  my  ruin  ; 

Else,  why  should  this  rough  thing,  who  never  knew 

Manners,  nor  smooth  humanity,  whose  heats 

Are  rougher  than  himself,  and  more  misshapen, 

Thus  mildly  kneel  to  me  1     Sure  there's  a  pow'r 

In  that  great  name  of  Virgin,  that  binds  fast 

All  rude  uncivil  bloods,  all  appetites 

That  break  their  confines :  then,  strong  Chastity  I 


ON  BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER,  BEN  JONSON,  ETC.    95 

Be  thou  my  strongest  guard,  for  here  I'll  dwell 
In  opposition  against  fate  and  hell !" 

Ben  Jonson's  '  Sad  Shepherd'  comes  nearer  it  in  style  and 
spirit,  but  still  with  essential  differences,  like  the  two  men,  and 
without  any  appearance  of  obligation.  Ben's  is  more  homely! 
and  grotesque.  Fletcher's  is  more  visionary  and  fantastical.  l\ 
hardly  know  which  to  prefer.  If  Fletcher  has  the  advantage  in  [ 
general  power  and  sentiment,  Jonson  is  superior  in  naivete  anc^/ 
truth  of  local  colouring. 

The  '  Two  Noble  Kinsmen'  is  another  monument  of  Fletcher's 
genius ;  and  it  is  said  also  of  Shakspeare's.  The  style  of  the 
first  act  has  certainly  more  weight,  more  abruptness,  and  more 
involution,  than  the  general  style  of  Fletcher,  with  fewer  soften- 
ings and  fillings-up  to  sheathe  the  rough  projecting  points  and 
piece  the  disjointed  fragments  together.  For  example,  the  com- 
pliment of  Theseus  to  one  of  the  Queens,  that  Hercules 

"  Tumbled  him  down  upon  his  Nemean  hide 
And  swore  his  sinews  thaw'd" 

at  sight  of  her  beauty,  is  in  a  bolder  and  more  masculine  vein 
than  Fletcher  usually  aimed  at.  Again,  the  supplicating  address 
of  the  distressed  Queen  to  Hippolita, 

"  Lend  us  a  knee : 


But  touch  the  gi-ound  for  us  no  longer  time 

Than  a  dove's  motion,  when  the  head's  pluck'd  ofip' — 

is  certainly  in  the  manner  of  Shakspeare,  with  his  subtlety  and 
strength  of  illustration.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  in  what  imme- 
diately follows,  relating  to  their  husbands  left  dead  in  the  field 
of  battle. 

"Tell  him  if  he  i'  th'  blood-siz'd  field  lay  swoln, 
Showing  the  sun  his  teeth,  grinning  at  the  moon, 
What  you  would  do," — 

I  think  we  perceive  the  extravagance  Of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher, 
not  contented  with  truth  or  strengtli  of  description,  but  hurried 
away  by  the  love  of  violent  excitement  into  an  image  of  disgust 


96  •  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH 

and  horror,  not  called  for,  and  not  at  all  proper  in  the  mouth  into 
which  it  is  put.  Tliere  is  a  studied  exaggeration  of  the  senti- 
ment, and  an  evident  imitation  of  the  parenthetical  interruptions 
and  breaks  in  the  line,  corresponding  to  what  we  sometimes  meet 
in  Shakspeare,  as  in  the  speeches  of  Leontes  in  '  The  Winter's 
Tale ;'  but  the  sentiment  is  overdone,  and  the  style  merely 
mechanical.  Thus  Hippolita  declares,  on  her  lord's  going  to  the 
wars, 

"  We  have  been  soldiers,  and  we  cannot  weep, 
When  our  friends  don  their  helms,  or  put  to  sea, 
Or  tell  of  babes  broach'd  on  the  lance,  or  women 
That  have  seethed  their  infants  in  (and  after  eat  them} 
The  brine  they  wept  at  kiUing  'em ;  then  if 
You  stay  to  see  of  us  sucli  spinsters,  we 
Should  hold  you  here  for  ever." 

One  might  apply  to  this  sort  of  poetry  what  Marvel  says  of 
some  sort  of  passions,  that  it  is 

"  Tearing  our  pleasures  with  rough  strife 
Through  the  iron  gates  of  life." 

It  is  not  in  the  true  spirit  of  Shakspeare,  who  was  "  born  only 
heir  to  all  humanity,"  whose  horrors  were  not  gratuitous,  and 
who  did  not  harrow  up  the  feelings  for  the  sake  of  making  mere 
bravura  speeches.  There  arc  also  in  this  first  act  several  repe- 
titions of  Shakspcare's  phraseology  ;  a  thing  that  seldom  or  never 
occurs  in  his  own  works.     For  instance  : 

"  Past  slightly 

His  careless  ezecuf.ioii" — 

"  T/ie  very  lees  of  such,  millions  of  rates 
Exceed  the  wliie  of  others" — ■ 

"  Let  the  event, 
That  never-erring  ar/ntralor,  tell  us" — 

"  Like  old  importmcnCs  bastard." 

There  are  also  words  that  are  never  used  by  Shakspeare  in  a 
similar  sense  : — 

"  All  our  surgeons 


Convent  in  their  behoof" — 

"  We  convent  nought  else  but  woes." 


ON  BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER,  BEN  JONSON,  ETC.    97 

In  short,  it  appears  to  me  that  the  first  part  of  this  play  was 
written  in  imitation  of  Shakspeare's  manner,  but  I  see  no  reason 
to  suppose  that  it  was  his,  but  the  common  tradition,  which  is  by- 
no  means  well  established.  The  subsequent  acts  are  confessedly 
Fletcher's,  and  the  imitations  of  Shakspeare  which  occur  there 
(not  of  Shakspeare's  manner  as  differing  from  his,  but  as  it  was 
congenial  to  his  own  spirit  and  feeling  of  nature)  are  glorious  in 
themselves,  and  exalt  our  idea  of  the  great  original  which  diJuld 
give  birth  to  such  magnificent  conceptions  in  another.  The  con- 
versation of  Palamon  and  Arcite  in  prison  is  of  this  description 
— the  outline  is  evidently  taken  from  that  of  Guiderius,  Arvira- 
gus,  and  Bellarius,  in  '  Cymbelline,'  but  filled  up  with  a  rich  pro- 
fusion of  graces  that  make  it  his  own  again. 

^^  Pal.     How  do  you,  noble  cousin  1 

Arc.     How  do  you,  Sir  1 

Pal.     "Why,  strong  enough  to  laugh  at  misery, 
And  bear  the  chance  of  war  yet.     We  ai"e  prisoners, 
I  fear  for  ever,  cousin. 

Arc.     I  believe  it ; 
And  to  that  destiny  have  patiently 
Laid  up  my  hour  to  come. 

Pal.     Oh,  cousin  Arcite, 
Where  is  Thebes  now  1    Where  is  our  noble  country  1 
Where  are  our  friends  and  kindreds  1     Never  more 
Must  we  behold  those  comforts  ;  never  see 
The  hardy  youths  strive  for  the  games  of  honour, 
Hung  with  the  painted  favours  of  their  ladies, 
Like  tall   ships  under  sail:  then  start  amongst  'em, 
And,  as  an  east  wind,  leave  'em  all  behind  us 
Like  lazy  clouds,  whilst  Palamon  and  Arcite 
Even  in  the  wagging  of  a  wanton  leg, 
Outstript  the  people's  praises,  won  the  garland. 
Ere  they  have  time  to  wish  'em  ours.     Oh,  never 
Shall  we  two  exercise,  like  twins  of  honour, 
Our  arms  again,  and  feel  our  fiery  horses, 
Like  proud  seas,  under  us !     Our  good  swords  now 
(Better  the  red-eyed  god  of  war  ne'er  wore) 
Ravish'd  our  sides,  like  age,  must  run  to  rust, 
And  deck  the  temples  of  those  gods  that  hate  us : 
These  hands  shall  never  draw  'em  out  like  lightning, 
To  blast  whole  armies  more. 

Arc.     No,  Palamon, 
Those  hopes  are  prisoners  with  us :  here  we  are, 
And  here  the  graces  of  our  youth  must  wither, 


98  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

Like  a  too  timely  spring:  here  age  must  find  us, 
And,  which  is  heaviest,  Palamon,  unmarried ; 
The  sweet  embraces  of  a  loving  wife, 
Loaden  with  kisses,  arin'd  with  thousand  Cupids, 
Shall  never  clasp  our  necks !     No  issue  know  us. 
No  figures  of  ourselves  shall  we  e'er  see, 
To  glad  our  age,  and  like  young  eaglets  teach  'em 
Boldly  to  gaze  against  bright  .nrms,  and  say. 
Remember  what  your  fathers  were,  and  conquer! 
^       The  fair-eyed  maids  shall  weep  our  banishments, 
And  in  their  songs  curse  ever-blinded  fortune, 
Till  she  for  shame  see  what  a  wrong  she  has  done 
To  youth  and  nature.     This  is  all  our  world : 
We  shall  know  nothing  here,  but  one  another; 
Hear  nothing  but  the  clock  that  tells  our  woes ; 
The  vine  shall  grow,  but  we  shall  never  see  it: 
Summer  shall  come,  and  with  her  all  delights, 
But  dead-cold  winter  must  inhabit  here  si  ill. 

Pal.    'Tis  too  true,  Arcite!     To  our  Theban  hounds, 
That  shook  the  aged  forest  with  their  echoes. 
No  more  now  must  we  hallow  ;  no  more  shake 
Our  pointed  javelins,  while  the  angiy  swine 
Flies,  like  a  Parthian  quiver,  from  our  rages, 
.Struck  with  our  well-steel'd  darts !     All  valiant  uses 
(The  food  and  nourishment  of  noble  minds) 
In  us  two  here  shall  perish  ;  we  shall  die 
(Which  is  the  curse  of  honour)  lazily. 
Children  of  grief  and  ignorance. 

Arc.     Yet,  cousin. 
Even  from  the  bottom  of  these  miseries. 
From  all  that  fortune  can  inflict  upon  us, 
I  see  two  comforts  rising,  two  mere  blessings, 
If  the  gods  please  to  hold  here ;  a  brave  patience, 
And  the  enjoying  of  our  griefs  together. 
Whilst  Palamon  is  with  me,  let  me  perish 
If  I  think  this  our  prison  ! 

Pal.     Certainly, 
'Tis  a  main  goodness,  cousin,  tliat  our  fortunes 
Were  twinn'd  together ;  'tis  most  true,  two  souls 
Put  in  two  noble  bodies,  let  'cm  suffer 
The  gall  of  hazard,  so  they  grow  together, 
Will  never  sink;  they  must  not,  say  they  could; 
A  willing  man  dies  sleeping,  and  all's  done. 

Arc.     Shall  we  make  worthy  uses  of  this  place, 
That  all  n>en  hate  so  much  7 

Pal.     How,  gentle  cousin  1 

Arc.     Let's  think  this  prison  a  holy  sanctuary 


ON  BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER,  BEN  JONSON,  ETC.    99 


To  keep  us  from  corruption  of  worse  men 

We  're  young,  and  yet  desire  tlie  ways  of  honour; 

That,  liberty  and  common  conversation, 

The  poison  of  pure  spirits,  might,  like  women, 

Woo  us  to  wanJer  from.     What  worthy  blessing 

Can  be,  but  our  imaginations 

May  make  it  oursl     And  here,  being  thus  together 

We  are  an  endless  mine  to  one  another  ^ 

We  're  father,  friends,  acquaintance  ; 

We  are,  in  one  another,  families  ; 

I  am  your  heir,  and  you  are  mine  ;  this  place 

Is  our  inheritance  ;  no  hard  oppressor 

Dare  take  this  from  us ;  here,  with  a  little  patience, 

We  shall  live  long,  and  loving;  no  surfeits  seek  us: 

The  hand  of  war  hurts  none  here,  nor  the  seas 

Swallow  their  youth  ;  were  we  at  liberty, 

A  wife  might  part  us  lawfully,  or  business; 

duarrels  consume  us;  envy  of  ill  men 

Crave  our  acquaintance;   [  might  sicken,  cousin 

Where  you  should  never  know  it,  and  so  perish 

Without  your  noble  hand  to  close  mine  eyes, 

Or  prayers  to  the  gods :  a  thousand  chances, 

Were  we  from  hence,  would  sever  us. 

Pal.    You  have  made  me 
(I  thank  you,  cousin  Arcite)  almost  wanton 
With  my  captivity;  what  a  misery 
It  is  to  live  abroad,  and  everywhere ! 
'Tis  like  a  beast,  methinks  !    I  find  the  court  here, 
I'm  sure  a  more  content ;  and  all  those  pleasures, 
That  woo  the  wills  of  men  to  vanity, 
I  see  through  now;  and  am  sufficient 
To  tell  the  world  'tis  but  a  gaudy  shadow 
That  old  Time,  as  he  passes  by,  takes  with  him. 
What  had  we  been,  old  in  the  court  of  Creon, 
Where  sin  is  justice,  lust  and  ignorance 
The  virtues  of  the  great  ones'?   Cousin  Arcite, 
Had  not  the  loving  gods  found  this  place  for  us, 
We  had  died  as  they  now,  ill  old  men  unwept, 
And  had  their  epitaphs, — the  people's  curses! 
Shall  I  say  morel 

Arc.     I  would  hear  you  still. 

Pal.     You  shall. 
Is  there  the  record  of  any  two  that  lov'd 
Better  than  we  do,  Arcite  1 

Arc.     Sure  there  cannot. 

Pal.     I  do  not  think  it  possible  our  friendship 
Should  ever  leave  us. 

Arc.    Till  our  deaths  it  cannot." 


100  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

Thus  they  "  sing  tlieir  bondage  freely;"  but  just  then  enters 
Emilia,  who  parts  all  this  friendship  between  them,  and  turns 
them  to  deadliest  foes. 

The  jailor's  daughter,  who  falls  in  love  with  Palamon,  and 
goes  mad,  is  a  wretched  interpolation  in  the  story,  and  a  fantastic 
copy  of  Ophelia.  But  they  readily  availed  themselves  of  all  the 
dramatic  common-places  to  be  found  in  Shakspeare, — love,  mad- 
ness, processions,  sports,  imprisonment,  &lc.,  and  copied  him  too 
often  in  earnest,  to  have  a  right  to  parody  him,  as  they  sometimes 
did,  in  jest.  The  story  of  '  The  Two  Noble  Kinsmen'  is  taken 
from  Chaucer's  '  Palamon  and  Arcite  ;'  but  the  latter  part,  which 
in  Chaucer  is  full  of  dramatic  power  and  interest,  degenerates  in 
the  play  into  a  mere  narrative  of  the  principal  events,  and  pos- 
sesses little  value  or  effect.  It  is  not  improbable  that  Beaumont 
and  Fletcher's  having  dramatized  this  story,  put  Dryden  upon 
modernizing  it. 

I  cannot  go  through  all  Beaumont  and  Fletcher's  dramas  (52 
in  number),  but  f  have  mentioned  some  of  the  principal,  and  the 
excellences  and  defects  of  the  rest  may  be  judged  of  from  these. 
*  The  Bloody  Brother',  '  A  Wife  for  a  Month,'  '  Bonduca,' 
'  Thierry  and  Theodoret,'  are  among  the  best  of  their  tragedies: 
among  the  comedies,  '  The  Night  Walker,'  '  The  Little  French 
Lawyer,'  and  '  Monsieur  Thomas,'  come  perhaps  next  to  '  The 
Chances,'  '  The  Wild  Goose  Chase,'  and  '  Rule  a  Wife  and  Have 
a  Wife.' — '  Philaster,  or.  Love  Lies  a-Bleeding,'  is  one  of  the 
most  admirable  productions  of  these  authors  (the  last  1  shall 
mention) ;  and  the  patience  of  Euphrasia,  disguised  as  Bellario, 
the  tenderness  of  Arethusa,  and  the  jealousy  of  Philaster,  are 
beyond  all  praise.  The  passages  of  extreme  romantic  beauty 
and  high- wrought  passion  that  I  might  quote  are  out  of  number. 
One  only  must  suffice,  the  account  of  the  commencement  of 
Euphrasia's  love  to  Philaster  : 

"  Sitting  in  my  window, 

Printing  my  thought  in  lavvMi,  I  saw  a  Goa 
I  tliought  (but  it  was  you)  enter  our  gates; 
My  blood  flew  out,  and  back  again  as  fast 
As  I  had  pufTt'd  it  forth  and  suck'd  it  in 
Like  breath ;  then  was  I  called  away  in  haste 
To  entertain  you.     Never  was  a  man 


ON  BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER,  BEN  JONSON,  ETC.  lOl 

Heav'd  from  a  sheep-cote  to  a  sceptre,  rais'd 
So  high  in  thoughts  as  I:  you  left  a  kiss 
Upon  these  Ups  then,  which  1  mean  to  keep 
From  you  for  ever.     I  did  hear  you  talk 
Far  above  singing !" 

And  so  it  is  our  poets  themselves  write,  "  far  above  singing."*    I 
am  loth  to  part  with  them,  and  wander  down,  as  we  now  must, 

"  Into  a  lower  world,  to  theirs  obscure 

And  wild — to  breathe  in  other  air 

Less  pure,  accustomed  to  immortal  fruits." 

Ben  Jonson's  serious  productions  are,  in  my  opinion,  superior 
to  his  comic  ones.  What  he  does,  is  the  result  of  strong  sense 
and  painful  industry ;  but  sense  and  industry  agree  better  with 
the  grave  and  severe,  than  with  the  light  and  gay  productions  of 
the  muse.  "  His  plays  were  works,"  as  some  one  said  of  them, 
"  while  others'  works  were  plays."  The  observation  had  less  of 
compliment  than  of  truth  in  it.  He  may  be  said  to  mine  his  way 
into  a  subject,  like  a  mole,  and  throws  up  a  prodigious  quantity 
of  matter  on  the  surface,  so  that  the  richer  the  soil  in  which  he 
labours,  the  less  dross  and  rubbish  we  have.  His  fault  is,  that 
he  sets  himself  too  much  to  his  subject,  and  cannot  let  go  his  hold 
of  an  idea,  after  the  insisting  on  it  becomes  tiresome  or  painful  to 
others.  But  his  tenaciousness  of  what  is  grand  and  lofty,  is  more 
praiseworthy  than  his  delight  in  what  is  low  and  disagreeable. 
His  pedantry  accords  better  with  didactic  pomp  than  with  illite- 
rate and  vulgar  gabble ;  his  learning,  engrafted  on  romantic  tra- 
dition or  classical  history,  looks  like  genius. 

"  Miraturque  novas  frondes  et  non  sua  poma." 

He  was  equal,  by  an  effort,  to  the  highest  things,  and  took  the 
same,  and  even  more  successful  pains  to  grovel  to  the  lowest. 
He  raised  himself  up  or  let  himself  down  to  the  level  of  his  sub- 

•  Euphrasia  as  the  Page,  just  before  speaking  of  her  life,  which  Philaster 
threatens  to  take  from  her,  says, 

"  'Tis  not  a  life ;    ^\ 

'Ti3  but  a  piece  of  childhood  ifirown  away.'A 

WTiat  exquisite  beauty  and  delicacy ! 


102  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

ject,  by  ponderous  machinery.  By  dint  of  application,  and  a 
certain  strengtli  of  nerve,  he  could  do  justice  to  Tacitus  and 
Sallust  no  less  than  to  mine  host  of  the  New  Inn.  His  tragedy 
of  *  The  Fall  of  Sejanus,'  in  particular,  is  an  admirable  piece 
of  ancient  mosaic.  The  principal  character  gives  one  the  idea 
of  a  lofty  column  of  solid  granite,  nodding  to  its  base  from  its 
pernicious  lieight,  and  dashed  in  pieces  by  a  breath  of  air,  a 
word  of  its  creator — feared,  not  pitied,  scorned,  unwept,  and  for- 
gotten. The  depth  of  knowledge  and  gravity  of  expression  sus- 
tain one  another  throughout :  the  poet  has  worked  out  the  his- 
torian's outline,  so  that  the  vices  and  passions,  the  ambition  and 
servility  of  public  men,  in  the  heated  and  poisoned  atmosphere 
of  a  luxurious  and  despotic  court,  were  never  described  in  fuller 
or  more  glowing  colours.  I  am  half  afraid  to  give  any  extracts, 
lest  they  should  bo  tortured  into  an  application  to  other  times 
and  characters  than  those  referred  to  by  the  poet.  Some  of  the 
sounds,  indeed,  may  bear  (for  what  I  know)  an  awkward  con- 
struction :  some  of  the  objects  may  look  double  to  squint-eyed 
suspicion.  But  that  is  not  my  fault.  It  only  proves  that  the 
characters  of  prophet  and  poet  are  implied  in  each  other  ;  that 
he  who  describes  human  nature  well  once,  describes  it  for  good 
and  all,  as  it  was,  is,  and,  I  begin  to  fear,  will  ever  be.  Truth 
always  was,  and  must  always  remain,  a  libel  to  the  tyrant  and 
the  slave.  Thus  Satrius  Secundus  and  Pinnarius  Natta,  two 
public  informers  in  those  days,  arc  described  as 

"  Two  of  Sojnnus'  blood-lionnds,  whom  he  breeds 
With  human  llesh,  to  bay  at  citizens." 

But  Rufus,  another  of  the  same  well-bred  gang,  debating  the 
point  of  his  own  character  with  two  senators  whom  he  has  en- 
trapped, boldly  asserts,  in  a  more  courtly  strain, 

"  To  be  a  spy  on  traitors 


Is  honourable  vi";ilance." 


This  sentiment  of  the  respectability  of  the  employment  of  a 
government  spy,  which  had  slept  in  Tacitus  for  near  two  thou- 
sand years,  has  not  been  without  its  modern  patrons.     The  ellects 


ON  BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER,  BEN  JONSON,  ETC.  103 


of  such  "  honourable  vigilance"  are  very  finely  exposed  in  the 
following  high-spirited  dialogue  between  Lepidus  and  Arruntius, 
two  noble  Romans,  who  loved  their  country,  but  were  not  un- 
fashionable enough  to  confound  their  country  with  its  oppressors, 
and  the  extinguishers  of  its  liberty. 

"i4rr.     What  are  thy  arts  (g^ood  patriot,  teach  them  me) 
That  have  preserv'd  thy  hairs  to  this  white  dye, 
And  kept  so  reverend  and  so  dear  a  head 
Safe  on  his  comely  shoulders'? 

Lep.     Arts,  Arruntius! 
None  but  the  plain  and  passive  fortitude 
To  suffer  and  be  silent;  never  stretch 
These  arms  against  the  torrent;  live  at  home 
With  my  own  thoughts  and  innocence  about  me, 
Not  tempting  the  wolves'  jaws:  these  are  my  arts. 

Arr.     I  would  begin  to  study  'em,  if  1  thought 
They  would  secure  me.     May  I  pray  to  Jove 
In  secret,  and  be  safe  1  ay,  or  aloud  1 
With  open  wishes  1  so  1  do  not  mention 
Tiberius  or  Sejanus!     Yes,  1  must, 
If  I  speak  out.     'Tis  hard,  that.     May  I  think, 
And  not  be  rack'd  1  What  danger  is't  to  dream  1 
Talk  in  one's  sleep,  or  cough  ?     Who  knows  the  lawl 
May  I  shake  my  head  without  a  comment'?     Say 
It  rains,  or  it  holds  up,  and  not  be  thrown 
Upon  the  Gemonies'?     These  now  are  things 
Whereon  men's  fortunes,  yea,  their  fate  depends; 
Nothing  hath  privilege  'gainst  the  violent  ear. 
No  place,  no  day,  no  hour  (we  see)  is  free 
(Not  our  religious  and  most  sacred  times) 
From  some  one  kind  of  cruelty;  all  matter, 
Nay,  all  occasion  pleaseth.     Madman's  rage, 
The  idleness  of  drunkards,  women's  notliing, 
Jesters'  simplicity,  all,  all  is  good 
That  can  be  catch'd  at." 

'Tis  a  pretty  picture  ;  and  the  duplicates  of  it,  though  multi- 
plied without  end,  are  seldom  out  of  request. 

The  following  portrait  of  a  prince  besieged  by  flatterers  (taken 
from  *  Tiberius')  has  unrivalled  force  and  beauty,  with  historic 
truth 

"  If  this  man 

Had  but  a  mind  allied  unto  his  words, 


104  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

How  blest  a  fate  were  it  to  us,  and  Rome'? 

Men  are  deceived, who  think  there  can  be  thrall 

Under  a  virtuous  prince.     Wish'd  liberty 

Ne'er  lovelier  looks  than  under  such  a  crown. 

But  when  his  grace  is  merely  but  lip-good, 

And  that,  no  longer  than  he  airs  himself 

Abroad  in  public,  there  to  seem  to  shun 

The  strokes  and  stripes  of  flatterers,  which  within 

Are  lechery  unto  him,  and  so  feed 

His  brutish  sense  with  their  afflicting  sound, 

As  (dead  to  virtue)  he  permits  himself 

Be  carried  like  a  pitcher  by  the  ears 

To  every  act  of  vice ;  this  is  a  case 

Deserves  our  fear,  and  doth  presage  the  nigh 

And  close  approach  of  bloody  tyranny. 

Flattery  is  midwife  unto  princes'  rage  : 

And  nothing  sooner  doth  help  forth  a  tyrant 

Than  that,  and  whisperers'  grace,  that  have  the  time, 

The  place,  the  power,  to  make  all  men  offenders!" 

The  only  part  of  this  play  in  which  Ben  Jonson  has  completely 
forgotten  himself  (or  rather  seems  not  to  have  clone  so)  is  in  the 
conversations  between  Livia  and  Eiidemus,  about  a  wash  for  her 
face,  here  called  a  fucvs,  to  appear  before  Sejanus.  '  Catiline's 
Conspiracy'  docs  not  furnish  by  any  means  an  equal  number  of 
striking  passages,  and  is  spun  out  to  an  excessive  length  with 
Cicero's  artificial  and  affected  orations  against  Catiline,  and  in 
praise  of  himself.  His  apologies  for  his  own  eloquence,  and 
declarations  that  in  all  his  art  he  uses  no  art  at  all,  put  one  in 
mind  of  Polonius's  circuitous  way  of  coming  to  the  point.  Both 
these  tragedies,  it  might  be  observed,  are  constructed  on  the  ex- 
act principles  of  a  French  historical  picture,  where  every  head 
and  figure  is  borrowed  from  the  antique ;  but,  somehow,  the  pre- 
cious  materials  of  old  Roman  history  and  character  are  better 
preserved  in  Jonson's  page  than  on  David's  canvas. 

Two  of  the  most  poetical  passages  in  Ben  Jonson  arc  the 
description  of  Echo  in  'Cynthia's  Revels,'  and  the  fine  compari- 
son  of  the  mind  to  a  temple,  in  the  '  New  Inn  ;'  a  play  which,  ou 
the  whole,  however,  I  can  read  with  no  patience. 

I  must  hasten  to  conclude  this  Lecture  with  some  account  of 
Massinrrer  and  Ford,  who  wrote  in  the  lime  of  Charles  I.  I  am 
sorry  I  cannot  do  it  con  amore.     The  writers  of  whom  I  have 


ON  BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER,  BEN  JONSON,  ETC.  105 

chiefly  had  to  speak  were  true  poets,  impassioned,  fanciful,  "  mu- 
sical as  is  Apollo's  lute;"  but  Massinger  is  harsh  and  crabbed. 
Ford  finical  and  fastidious.     I  find  little  in  the  works  of  these 
two  dramatists,  but  a  display  of  great  strength  or  subtlety  of  un- 
derstanding, inveteracy  of  purpose,  and  perversity  of  will.    This 
is  not  exactly  what  we  look  for  in  poetry,  which,  according  to  the 
most  approved  recipes,  should  combine  pleasure  with  profit,  and 
not  owe  all  its  fascination  over  the  mind  to  its  power  of  shocking 
or  perplexing  us.   The  muses  should  attract  by  grace  or  dignity  of 
mien.     j\Iassinger  makes  an  impression  by  hardness  and  repul- 
siveness  of  manner.   In  the  intellectual  processes  which  he  delights 
to  describe,  "  reason  panders  will :"  he  fixes  arbitrarily  on  some 
object  which  there  is  no  motive  to  pursue,  or  every  motive  com- 
bined  against  it,  and  then,  by  screwing  up  his  heroes  or  heroines  to 
the  deliberate  and  blind  accomplishment  of  this,  thinks  to  arrive  at 
"  the  true  pathos  and  sublime  of  human  life."  That  is  not  the  way. 
He  seldom  touches  the  heart,  or  kindles  the  fancy.    It  is  in  vain  to 
hope  to  excite  much  sympathy  with  convulsive  efforts  of  the  will, 
or   intricate   contrivances  of  the  understanding,   to  obtain  that 
which  is  better  left  alone,  and  where  the   interest  arises  princi- 
pally from  the  conflict  between  the  absurdity  of  the  passion  and 
the  obstinacy  with  which  it  is  persisted  in.     For  the  most  part, 
his  villains  are  a  sort  of  lusus  naturce  ;  his  impassioned  charac- 
ters are  like  drunkards  or  madmen.     Their  conduct  is  extreme 
and  outrageous,  their  motives  unaccountable   and  weak ;   their 
misfortunes   are    without  necessity,   and   their  crimes   without 
temptation,  to  ordinary  apprehensions.     I  do  not  say  that  this  is 
invariably  the  case  in  all   Massinorer's  scenes,   but  I  think  it 
will  be  found  that  a  principle  of  playing  at  cross-purposes  is  the 
ruling  passion  throughout  most  of  them.     This  is  the  case  in  the 
tragedy  of  '  The  Unnatural  Combat,'  in  '  The  Picture,'  '  The 
Duke  of  Milan,'  *  A  New  Way  to  Pay  Old  Debts,'  and  even  in 
'  The  Bondman,'  and  '  The  Virgin  Martyr,'  &c.     In  '  The  Pic- 
ture,' Matthias  nearly  loses  his  wife's  affections,  by  resorting  to 
the  far-fetched  and  unnecessary  device  of  procuring  a  magical 
portrait  to  read  the  slightest  variation  in  her  thoughts.     In  the 
same  play,  Honoria  risks  her  reputation  and  her  life  to  gain  a 
clandestine  interview  with  Matthias,  merely  to  shake  his  fidelity 
8 


106  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

to  his  wife,  and  when  she  has  gained  her  object,  tells  the  king 
her  husband  in  pure  caprice  and  fickleness  of  purpose.  '  The 
Virgin  Martyr'  is  nothing  but  a  tissue  of  instantaneous  conver- 
sions to  and  from  Paganism  and  Christianity.  The  only  scenes 
of  any  real  beauty  and  tenderness  in  this  play,  are  those  between 
Dorothea  and  Angelo,  her  supposed  friendless  beggar-boy,  but 
her  guardian  angel  in  disguise,  which  are  understood  to  be  by 
Decker.  The  interest  of  '  The  Bondman'  turns  upon  two  differ- 
ent acts  of  penance  and  self-denial,  in  the  persons  of  the  hero 
and  heroine,  Pisandcr  and  Cleora.  In  the  Duke  of  ]\Iilan 
(the  most  poetical  of  Massinger's  productions),  Sforza's  resolu- 
tion to  destroy  his  wife,  rather  than  bear  the  thought  of  her  sur- 
viving him,  is  as  much  out  of  the  verge  of  nature  and  probabili- 
ty, as  it  is  unexpected  and  revolting,  from  the  want  of  any  cir- 
cumstances of  palliation  leading  to  it.  It  stands  out  alone,  a 
pure  piece  of  voluntary  atrocity,  which  seems  not  the  dictate  of 
passion,  but  a  start  of  phrensy  ;  as  cold-blooded  in  the  execution 
as  it  is  extravagant  in  the  conception. 

Again,  Francesco,  in  this  play,  is  a  person  whose  actions  we 
are  at  a  loss  to  explain  till  the  conclusion  of  the  piece,  when  the 
attempt  to  account  for  them  from  motives  originally  amiable  and 
generous,  only  produces  a  double  sense  of  incongruity,  and  in- 
stead of  satisfying  the  mind,  renders  it  totally  incredulous.  He 
endeavours  to  seduce  the  wife  of  his  benefactor,  he  then  (failing) 
attempts  her  death,  slanders  her  foully,  and  wantonly  causes  her 
to  be  slain  by  the  hand  of  her  husband,  and  has  him  poisoned  by 
a  nefarious  stratagem,  and  all  this  to  appease  a  high  sense  of 
injured  honour,  that  "  felt  a  stain  like  a  wound,"  and  from  the 
tender  overflowing  of  fraternal  affection,  his  sister  having,  it  ap- 
pears, been  formerly  betrothed  to,  and  afterwards  deserted  by, 
the  Duke  of  Milan.  Sir  Giles  Overreach  is  the  most  successful 
and  striking  effort  of  Massinger's  pen,  and  the  best  known  to  the 
reader,  but  it  will  hardly  be  thought  to  form  an  exception  to  the 
tenor  of  the  above  remarks.*     The  same  spirit  of  caprice  and 

*  The  following  criticism  on  this  play  has  appeared  in  another  publication, 
but  may  be  not  improperly  inserted  here  : 

"  '  A  New  Way  to  Pay  Old  Debts'  is  certainly  a  very  admirable  play,  and 
highly  characteristic  of  the  genius  of  its  author,  which  was  hard  and  forcible, 


ON  BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER,  BEN  JONSON,  ETC.  107 

sullenness  survives  in  Rowe's  '  Fair  Penitent,'  taken  from  this 
author's  '  Fatal  Dowry.' 

Ford  is  not  so  great  a  favourite  with  me  as  with  some  others, 
from  whose  judgment  I  dissent  with  diffidence.     It  has  been  la- 

and  calculated  rather  to  produce  a  strong  impression  than  a  pleasing  one. 
There  is  considerable  unity  of  design  and  a  progressive  interest  in  the  fable, 
though  the  artifice  by  which  the  catastrophe  is  brought  about  (the  double  as- 
sumption of  the  character  of  favoured  lovers  by  Wellborn  and  Lovell)is  some- 
what improbable,  and  out  of  date ;  and  the  moral  is  peculiarly  striking,  be- 
cause its  whole  weight  falls  upon  one  who  all  along  prides  himself  in  setting 
every  principle  of  justice  and  all  fear  of  consequences  at  defiance. 

"  The  character  of  Sir  Giles  Overreach  (the  most  prominent  feature  of  the 
play,  whether  in  the  perusal,  or  as  it  is  acted)  interests  us  less  by  exciting  our 
sympathy  than  our  indignation.  We  hate  him  very  heartily,  and  yet  not 
enough  ;  for  he  has  strong,  robust  points  about  him  that  repel  the  imperti- 
nence of  censure,  and  he  sometimes  succeeds  in  making  us  stagger  in  our 
opinion  of  his  conduct,  by  throwing  off  any  idle  doubts  or  scruples  that 
might  hang  upon  it  in  his  own  mind,  '  hke  dew-drops  from  the  lion's  mane.' 
His  steadiness  of  purpose  scarcely  stands  in  need  of  support  from  the  com- 
mon sanctions  of  morality,  which  he  intrepidly  breaks  through,  and  he  almost 
conquers  our  prejudices  by  the  consistent  and  determined  manner  in  which  he 
braves  them.  Self-interest  is  his  idol,  and  he  makes  no  secret  of  his  idolatry : 
he  is  only  a  more  devoted  and  unblushing  worshipper  at  this  shrine  than  other 
men.  Self  will  is  (he  only  rule  of  his  conduct,  to  which  he  makes  every  other 
feeling  bend  :  or  rather,  from  the  nature  of  his  constitution,  he  has  no  sickly, 
sentimental  obstacles  to  interrupt  him  in  his  headstrong  career.  He  is  a  char- 
acter of  obdurate  self-will,  without  fanciful  notions  or  natural  affections  ;  one 
who  has  no  regard  to  the  feelings  of  others,  and  who  professes  an  equal  disre- 
gard to  their  opinions.  He  minds  nothing  but  his  own  ends,  and  takes  the 
shortest  and  surest  way  to  them.  His  understanding  is  clear-sighted,  and  his 
passions  strong-nerved.  Sir  Giles  is  no  flincher,  and  no  hypocrite ;  and  he 
gains  almost  as  much  by  the  hardihood  with  which  he  avows  his  impudent 
and  sordid  designs  as  others  do  by  their  caution  in  conceahng  them.  He  is 
the  demon  of  selfishness  personified ;  and  carves  out  his  way  to  the  objects 
of  his  unprincipled  avarice  and  ambition  with  an  arm  of  steel,  that  strikes  but 
does  not  feel  the  blow  it  inflicts.  The  character  of  calculating,  systematic 
self-love,  as  the  master-key  to  all  his  actions,  is  preserved  with  great  truth  of 
keeping  and  in  the  most  trifling  circumstances.  Thus  ruminating  to  himself, 
he  says,  "  I'll  walk,  to  get  me  an  appetite :  'tis  but  a  mile;  and  exercise  will 
keep  me  from  being  pursy  !' — Yet,  to  show  the  absurdity  and  impossibility 
of  a  man's  being  governed  by  any  such  pretended  exclusive  regard  to  his  own 
interest,  this  very  Sir  Giles,  who  laughs  at  conscience,  and  scorns  opinion, 
who  ridicules  every  thing  as  fantastical  but  wealth,  solid,  substantial  wealth, 
and  boasts  of  himself  as  having  been  the  founder  of  his  own  fortune,  by  his 
contempt  for  every  other  consideration,  is  ready  to  sacrifice  the  whole  of  his 


t/\ 


108  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 


mented  that  the  play  of  his  which  has  been  most  admired  ('  'Tis 
Pity  She's  a  Whore')  had  not  a  less  exceptionable  subject.  I  do 
not  know,  but  I  suspect  that  the  exceptionableness  of  the  subject 
is  that  which  constitutes  the  chief  merit  of  the  play.  The  re- 
enormous  possessions — to  what  1 — to  a  title,  a  sound,  to  make  his  daughter 
'  right  honourable,'  the  wife  of  a  lord  whose  name  he  cannot  repeat  without 
loathing,  and  in  the  end  he  becomes  the  dupe  of,  and  falls  a  victim  to,  that 
very  opinion  of  the  world  which  he  despises  ! 

"  The  character  of  Sir  Giles  Overreach  has  been  found  fault  with  as  unna- 
tural ;  and  it  may,  perhaps,  in  the  present  refinement  of  our  manners,  have 
become  in  a  great  measure  obsolete.  But  we  doubt  whether  even  still,  in  re- 
mote and  insulated  parts  of  the  country,  sufficient  traces  of  the  same  charac- 
ter of  wilful  selfishness,  mistaking  the  inveteracy  of  its  purposes  for  their 
rectitude,  and  boldly  appealing  to  power,  as  justifying  the  abuses  of  power, 
may  not  be  found  to  warrant  this  an  undoubted  original — probably  a  fac- 
simile of  some  individual  of  the  poet's  actual  acquaintance.  In  less  advanced 
periods  of  society  than  that  in  which  we  live,  if  we  except  rank,  which  can 
neither  be  an  object  of  common  pursuit  nor  immediate  attainment,  money  is 
the  only  acknowledged  passport  to  respect.  It  is  not  merely  valuable  as  a 
security  from  want,  but  it  is  the  only  defence  against  the  insolence  of  power. 
Avarice  is  sharpened  by  pride  and  necessity.  There  are  then  few  of  the  arts, 
the  amusements,  and  accomplishments,  that  soften  and  sweeten  life,  that  raise 
or  refine  it:  the  only  way  in  which  any  one  can  be  of  service  to  himself  or 
another,  is  by  his  command  over  the  gross  commodities  of  life  ;  and  a  man  is 
worth  just  so  much  as  he  has.  Where  he  who  is  not  *  lord  of  acres'  is  looked 
upon  as  a  slave  and  a  beggar,  the  soul  becomes  wedded  to  the  soil  by  which 
its  worth  is  measured,  and  takes  root  in  it  in  proportion  to  its  own  strength 
and  stubbornness  of  character.  The  example  of  Wellborn  may  be  cited  in 
illustration  of  these  remarks.  The  loss  of  his  land  makes  all  the  diflference 
between  '  young  master  Wellborn'  and  '  rogue  Wellborn  ;'  and  the  treatment 
he  meets  with  in  this  latter  capacity  is  the  best  apology  for  the  character  of 
Sir  Giles.     Of  the  two,  it  is  better  to  be  the  oppressor  than  the  oppressed. 

"  Massinger,  it  is  true,  dealt  generally  in  extreme  characters,  as  well  as  in 
very  repulsive  ones.  The  passion  is  with  him  wound  up  to  its  height  at  first, 
and  he  never  lets  it  down  afterwards.  It  does  not  gradually  arise  out  of  pre- 
vious circumstances,-  nor  is  it  modified  by  other  passions.  This  gives  an  ap- 
pearance of  abruptness,  violence,  and  extravagance  to  all  his  plays.  Shaks- 
peare's  characters  act  from  mixed  motives,  and  are  made  M'hat  they  are  by 
various  circumstances.  Massinger's  characters  act  from  single  motives,  and 
become  what  they  are,  and  remain  so,  by  a  pure  effort  of  the  will,  in  spite  of 
circumstances.  This  last  author  endeavoured  to  embody  an  abstract  princi- 
ple ;  labours  hard  to  bring  out  the  same  individual  trait  in  its  most  exaggerated 
state  ;  and  the  force  of  his  impassioned  characters  arises  for  the  most  part  from 
the  obstinacy  with  which  they  exclude  every  otlier  feeling.  Their  vices  look 
of  a  gigantic  stature  from  their  standing  alone.     Their  actions  seem  extrava- 


ON  BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER,  BEN  JONSON,  ETC.    109 

pulsiveness  of  the  story  is  what  gives  it  its  critical  interest ;  for 
it  is  a  studiously  prosaic  statement  of  facts,  and  naked  declara 
tion  of  passions.  It  was  not  the  least  of  Shakspeare's  praise, 
that  he  never  tampered  with  unfair  subjects.  His  genius  was 
above  it ;  his  taste  kept  aloof  from  it.  I  do  not  deny  the  power 
of  simple  painting  and  polished  style  in  this  tragedy  in  general, 
and  of  a  great  deal  more  in  some  few  of  the  scenes,  particularly 
in  the  quarrel  between  Annabella  and  her  husband,  which  is 
wrought  up  to  a  pitch  of  demoniac  scorn  and  phrensy  with  con- 
summate art  and  knowledge  ;  but  I  do  not  find  much  other  power 
in  the  author  (generally  speaking)  than  that  of  playing  with 
edged  tools,  and  knowing  the  use  of  poisoned  weapons.  And 
what  confirms  me  in  this  opinion  is  the  comparative  inefficiency 
of  his  other  plays.  Except  the  last  scene  of  '  The  Broken 
Heart'  (which  I  think  extravagant — others  may  think  it  sublime, 
and  be  right),  they  are  merely  exercises  of  style  and  effusions 
of  wire-drawn  sentiment.  Where  they  have  not  the  sting  of  il- 
licit passion,  they  are  quite  pointless,  and  seem  painted  on  gauze, 
or  spun  of  cobwebs.  The  affected  brevity  and  division  of  some 
of  the  lines  into  hemisticks,  &c.  so  as  to  make  in  one  case   a 

gantfrom  their  having  always  the  same  fixed  aim — the  same  incorrigible  pur- 
pose. The  fault  of  Sir  Giles  Overreach,  in  this  respect,  is  less  in  the  excess 
to  which  he  pushes  a  favourite  propensity,  than  in  the  circumstance  of  its 
being  unmixed  with  any  other  virtue  or  vice. 

"  We  may  find  the  same  simplicity  of  dramatic  conception  in  the  comic  as 
in  the  tragic  characters  of  the  author.  Justice  Greedy  has  but  one  idea  or 
subject  in  his  head  throughout.  He  is  always  eating,  or  talking  of  eating. 
His  belly  is  always  in  his  mouth,  and  we  know  nothing  of  him  but  his  appe- 
tite; he  is  as  sharpset  as  travellers  from  off  a  journey.  His  land  of  promise 
touches  on  the  borders  of  the  wilderness  :  his  thoughts  are  constantly  in  aj> 
prehension  of  feasting  or  famishing,  A  fat  turkey  floats  before  his  imagina- 
tion in  royal  state,  and  his  hunger  sees  visions  of  chines  of  beef,  venison 
pasties,  and  Norfolk  dumplings,  as  if  it  were  seized  with  a  calenture.  He  is 
a  very  amusing  personage  ;  and  in  what  relates  to  eating  and  drinking,  as 
peremptory  as  Sir  Giles  himself — Marrall  is  another  instance  of  confined 
comic  humour,  whose  ideas  never  wander  beyond  the  ambition  of  being  the 
implicit  drudge  of  another's  knavery  or  good  fortune.  He  sticks  to  his  stew- 
ardship, and  resists  the  favour  of  a  salute  from  a  fine  lady,  as  not  entered  in 
his  accounts.  The  humour  of  this  character  is  less  striking  in  the  play  than 
in  Munden's  personification  of  it.  The  other  characters  do  not  require  any 
particular  analysis.     They  are  very  insipid,  good  sort  of  people." 


110  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

mathematical  stair-case  of  the  words  and  answers  given  to  dif- 
ferent speakers,*  is  an  instance  of  frigid  and  ridiculous  pedantry. 
An  artificial  elaborateness  is  the  general  characteristic  of  Ford's 
style.  In  this  respect  his  plays  resemble  Miss  Baillie's  more 
than  any  others  I  am  acquainted  with,  and  are  quite  distinct 
from  the  exuberance  and  unstudied  force  which  characterized 
his  immediate  predecessors.  There  is  too  much  of  scholastic 
subtlety,  an  innate  perversity  of  understanding  or  predominance 
of  will,  wliich  either  seeks  the  irritation  of  inadmissible  subjects, 
or  to  stimulate  its  own  faculties  by  taking  the  most  barren,  and 
making  something  out  of  nothing,  in  a  spirit  of  contradiction. 
He  does  not  draw  along  with  the  reader  :  he  does  not  work  upon 
our  sympathy,  but  on  our  antipathy  or  our  indifference ;  and 
there  is  as  little  of  the  social  or  gregarious  principle  in  his  pro- 
ductions as  there  appears  to  have  been  in  his  personal  habits,  if 
we  are  to  believe  Sir  John  Suckling,  who  says  of  him,  in  the 
Sessions  of  the  Poets — 

"  In  the  dumps  John  Ford  alone  by  himself  sat 
Willi  folded  ai-ms  and  melanclioly  hat." 

I  do  not  remember  without  considerable  effort  the  plot  or  per- 
sons of  most  of  his  plays — '  Pcrkin  Warbeck,'  '  The  Lover's 
Melancholy,'  '  Love's  Sacrifice,'  and  the  rest.  There  is  little 
character,  except  of  the  most  evanescent  or  extravagant  kind  (to 
which  last  class  we  may  refer  that  of  the  sister  of  Calantha  in 
'  The  Broken  Heart') — little  imagery  or  fancy,  and  no  action.  It 
is  but  fair,  however,  to  give  a  scene  or  two,  in  illustration  of  these 
remarks  (or  in  confutation  of  them,  if  they  are  wrong),  and  I 
shall  take  the  concluding  one  of  '  The  Broken  Heart,'  which  is 
held  up  as  the  author's  master-piece. 

*  "  Ilhodes.    Soft  peace  enrich  this  room, 

Orgilus.  How  fares  the  lady  1 

Philema.     Dead ! 

Christ  alia.  Dead ! 

Philema.  Starv'd! 

Christalla.  Starv'd ! 

Ithocks.  Me  miserable !" 


ON  BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER,  BEN  JONSON,  ETC.  Ill 

"  Scene — A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

A  Flourish. — Enter  Euphranea,  led  by  Groneas  and  Hemophil  :  Prophilus, 
led  by  Christalla  and  Piiilema  :  Nearchus  stipporting  Calaktha, 
Cbotolon,  and  Amelus. 

Cal.     We  miss  our  servants,  Ithocles  and  Orgilus.    On  whom  attend  they  1 

Crot.     My  son,  gracious  princess, 
Whisper'd  some  new  device,  to  which  these  revels 
Should  be  but  usher :  wherein  I  conceive 
Lord  Ithocles  and  he  himself  are  actors. 

Cal.     A  fair  excuse  for  absence.     As  for  Bassanes, 
Delights  to  him  are  troublesome.     Armostes 
Is  with  the  king  1 

Crot.  He  is. 

Cal.  On  to  the  dance! 

Cousin,  hand  you  the  bride:  the  bridegroom  must  be 
Entrusted  to  my  courtship.     Be  not  jealous, 
Euphranea ;  I  shall  scarcely  prove  a  temptress. 
Fall  to  our  dance ! 

{^Tliey  dance  the  first  change,  during  which  enter  Anyw  ST  Es.) 

Arm.     {In  a  whisper  to  Calantha.)     The  king  your  father's  dead. 

Cal.     To  the  other  change. 

Arvi,  Is't  possible  1 

T^iey  dance  the  second  change. — Enter  Bassanes. 

Bfuss.     ( If^iispers  Calantha).     Oh  !  Madam, 
Penthea,  poor  Penthea's  starv'd. 

Cal.     Beshrew  thee ! 
Lead  to  the  next ! 

Bass.    Amazement  dulls  my  senses. 

T/icy  dance  t/te  third  change. — Enter  Orgilus. 

Org.     Brave  Ithocles  is  murder'd,  murder'd  cruelly. 

Cal.     How  dull  this  music  sounds !     Strike  up  more  sprightly 
Our  footings  are  not  active  Uke  our  heart,* 
Which  treads  the  nimbler  measure, 

Org.     I  am  thunderstruck. 

The  last  change. 

Cal.     So  ;  let  us  breathe  awhile.     {Music  ceases.^    Hath  not  this  motion 
Rais'd  fresher  colours  on  our  cheek  1 

NeofT.     Sweet  princess, 
A  perfect  purity  of  blood  enamels 
The  beauty  of  your  white. 

Cal.     We  all  look  cheerfully : 
And,  cousin,  'tis,  methinks,  a  rare  presumption 

*  "  High  as  our  heart." — See  passage  from  the  '  Malcontent.' 


112  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

In  any  who  prefers  our  lawful  pleasures 
Before  their  own  sour  censure,  to  interrupt 
The  custom  of  tliis  ceremony  bluntly. 

Near.    None  dares,  lady. 

Cat.     Yes,  yes  ;  some  hollow  voice  deliverd  to  me 
How  that  the  king  was  dead. 

Arm.     The  king  is  dead,"  &c.  &:c. 

This,  I  confess,  appears  to  me  to  be  tragedy  in  masquerade.  Nor 
is  it,  I  think,  accounted  for,  though  it  may  be  in  part  redeemed  by 
her  solemn  address  at  the  altar  to  the  dead  body  of  her  husband. 

"  Cal.     Forgive  me.     Now  I  turn  to  thee,  thou  shadow 
Of  my  contracted  lord  !     Bear  witness  all, 
I  put  my  mother's  wedding-ring  upon 
His  finger  ;  'twas  my  father's  last  bequest : 

{Places  a  ring  on  the  finger  of  Ithocles,) 
Thus  I  new  marry  him,  whose  wife  I  am : 
Death  shall  not  separate  us.     Oh,  my  lords, 
I  but  deceived  your  eyes  with  antic  gesture, 
When  one  news  strait  came  huddling  on  another 
Of  death,  and  death,  and  death  :  still  I  danced  forward  ; 
But  it  struck  home  and  here,  and  in  an  instant. 
Be  such  mere  women,  who  with  shrieks  and  outcries 
Can  vow  a  present  end  to  all  their  sorrows. 
Yet  live  to  court  new  pleasures,  and  outlive  them : 
They  are  the  silent  griefs  which  cut  the  heartstrings: 
Let  me  die  smiling. 

Near.     'Tis  a  truth  too  ominous. 

Cal.     One  kiss  on  these  cold  lips — my  last :  crack,  crack 
Argos,  now  Sparta's  king,  command  the  voices 
Which  wait  at  th'  altar,  now  to  sing  the  song 
I  fitted  for  my  end," 

And  then,  after  the  song,  she  dies. 

This  is  the  true  false  gallop  of  sentiment :  anything  more  arti- 
ficial and  mechanical  I  cannot  conceive.  The  boldness  of  the 
attempt,  however,  the  very  extravagance,  might  argue  the  re- 
liance of  the  author  on  the  truth  of  feeling  prompting  him  to 
hazard  it ;  but  the  whole  scene  is  a  forced  transposition  of  that 
already  alluded  to  in  Marston's  '  Malcontent.'  Even  the  form  of 
the  stage  directions  is  the  same. 


ON  BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER,  BEN  JONSON,  ETC    113 


Enter  Mekdozo,  supporting  the  Duchess  ;  Guerrino;  the  Ladies  that  are  on 
the  stage  rise.  Ferrardo  iishers  in  the  Duchess  ;  then  takes  a  Lady  to  tread 
a  measure. 
Aurelia.    We  will  dance.    Music  !  we  will  dance.        *        * 

Enter  Prepasso. 
Who  saw  the  Duke'?  the  Duke  1 

Aurelia.     Music !  ^ 

Prcpussa.     The  Duke  1  is  the  Duke  returned  1 
Aurelia.     Music! 

Enter  Celso. 

The  Duke  is  quite  invisible,  or  else  is  not. 

Aurelia.  We  are  not  pleased  with  your  intrusion  upon  our  private  retire- 
ment ;  we  are  not  pleased  :  you  have  forgot  yourselves. 

Enter  a  Page. 

Celso.     Boy,  thy  master  %  where's  the  Duke  % 

Page.  Alas,  I  left  him  burying  the  earth  with  his  spread  joyless  limbs;  he 
told  me  he  was  heavy,  would  sleep :  bid  me  walk  off,  for  the  strength  of 
fantasy  oft  made  him  talk  in  his  dreams :  I  strait  obeyed,  nor  ever  saw  liim 
since  ;  but  wheresoe'er  he  is,  he's  sad. 

Aurelia.     Music,  sound  high,  as  is  our  heart ;  sound  high. 

Enter  Malevole  and  her  HusbaMd,  disguised  like  a  Hermit. 

Malevole.     The  Duke  1    Peace,  the  Duke  is  dead. 

Aurelia.    Music !"  Ad  IV.  Scene  3. 

The  passage  in  Ford  appears  to  me  an  ill-judged  copy  from 
this.  That  a  woman  should  call  for  music,  and  dance  on  in  spite 
of  the  death  of  her  husband  whom  she  hates,  without  regard  to 
common  decency,  is  but  too  possible  :  that  she  should  dance  on 
with  the  same  heroic  perseverance  in  spite  of  the  death  of  her 
husband,  of  her  father,  and  of  every  one  else  whom  she  loves, 
from  regard  to  comxmon  courtesy  or  appearance,  is  not  surely 
natural.  The  passions  may  silence  the  voice  of  humanity,  but 
it  is,  I  think,  equally  against  probability  and  decorum  to  make 
both  the  passions  and  the  voice  of  humanity  give  way  (as  in  the 
example  of  Calantha)  to  a  mere  form  of  outward  behaviour.  Such 
a  suppression  of  the  strongest  and  most  uncontroulable  feelings 
can  only  be  justified  from  necessity,  for  some  great  purpose, 
which  is  not  the  case  in  Ford's  play;  or  it  must  be  done  for  the 
effect  and  eclat  of  the  thing,  which  is  not  fortitude  but  affectation. 
Mr.  Lamb,  in  his  impressive  eulogy  on  this  passage  in  '  The 


114  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

Broken  Heart/  has  failed  (as  far  as  I  can  judge)  in  establishing 
the  parallel  between  this  uncalled-for  exhibition  of  stoicism,  and 
the  story  of  the  Spartan  boy. 

It  may  be  proper  to  remark  here,  that  most  of  the  great  men 
of  the  period  I  have  treated  of  (except  the  greatest  of  all,  and 
one  other,)  were  men  of  classical  education.  They  were  learned 
men  in  an  unlettered  age  ;  not  self-taught  men  in  a  literary  and 
critical  age.  This  circumstance  should  be  taken  into  the  ac- 
count in  a  theory  of  the  dramatic  genius  of  that  age.  Except 
Shakspeare,  nearly  all  of  them,  indeed,  came  up  from  Oxford  or 
Cambridge,  and  immediately  began  to  write  for  the  stage.  No 
wonder.  The  first  coming  up  to  London  in  those  days  must  have 
had  a  singular  effect  upon  a  young  man  of  genius,  almost  like 
visiting  Babylon  or  Susa,  or  a  journey  to  the  other  world.  The 
stage  (even  as  it  then  was,)  after  the  recluseness  and  austerity 
of  a  college  life,  must  have  appeared  like  Armida's  enchanted 
palace,  and  its  gay  votaries  like 

"  Fairy  elves  beyond  the  Indian  mount, 

Whose  midnight  revels,  by  a  forest  side 

Or  fountain,  some  belated  peasant  sees, 

Or  dreams  he  sees ;  while  overhead  the  moon 

Sits  arbitress,  and  nearer  to  the  earth 

Wheels  her  pale  course :  they  on  their  mirth  and  dance 

Intent,  with  jocund  music  charm  his  ear: 

At  once  with  joy  and  fear  his  heart  rebounds." 

So  our  young  novices  must  have  felt  when  they  first  saw  the 
magic  of  the  scene,  and  heard  its  syren  sounds  with  rustic  won- 
der  and  the  scholar's  pride  :  and  the  joy  that  streamed  from  their 
eyes  at  that  fantastic  vision,  at  that  gaudy  shadow  of  life,  of  all 
its  business  and  all  its  pleasures,  and  kindled  their  enthusiasm 
to  join  the  mimic  throng,  still  has  left  a  long  lingering  glory  be- 
liind  it ;  and  though  now  "  deaf  the  praised  ear,  and  mute  the 
tuneful  tongue,"  lives  in  their  eloquent  page,  "  informed  with 
music,  sentiment,  and  thought,  never  to  die !" 


ON  SINGLE  PLAYS,  POEMS,  ETC.  115 


LECTURE  V. 

On  Single  Plays,  Poems,  &:c. — The  Four  P's,  The  Return  from  Parnassus, 
Gammer  Gurton's  Needle,  and  other  Works. 

I  SHALL,  in  this  lecture,  turn  back  to  give  some  account  of  single 
plays,  poems,  &c. ;  the  authors  of  which  are  either  not  known 
or  not  very  eminent,  and  the  productions  themselves,  in  general, 
more  remarkable  for  their  singularity,  or  as  specimens  of  the 
style  and  manners  of  the  age,  than  for  their  intrinsic  merit  or 
poetical  excellence.  There  are  many  more  works  of  this  kind, 
however,  remaining,  than  I  can  pretend  to  give  an  account  of; 
and  what  I  shall  chiefly  aim  at,  will  be  to  excite  the  curiosity  of 
the  reader,  rather  than  to  satisfy  it. 

'  The  Four  P's'  is  an  interlude,  or  comic  dialogue,  in  verse, 
between  a  Palmer,  a  Pardoner,  a  Poticary,  and  a  Pedlar,  in 
which  each  exposes  the  tricks  of  his  own  and  his  neighbours' 
profession,  with  much  humour  and  shrewdness.  It  was  written 
by  John  Heywood,  the  Epigrammatist,  who  flourished  chiefly  in 
the  reign  of  Henry  VIIL,  was  the  intimate  friend  of  Sir  Thomas 
More,  with  whom  he  seems  to  have  had  a  congenial  spirit,  and 
died  abroad,  in  consequence  of  his  devotion  to  the  Roman  Catholic 
cause,  about  the  year  1565.  His  zeal,  however,  on  this  head, 
does  not  seem  to  have  blinded  his  judgment,  or  to  have  prevented 
him  from  using  the  utmost  freedom  and  seventy  in  lashing  the 
abuses  of  Popery,  at  which  he  seems  to  have  looked  "  with  the 
malice  of  a  friend."  '  The  Four  P's'  bears  the  date  of  1547.  It 
is  very  curious,  as  an  evidence  both  of  the  wit,  the  manners,  and 
opinions  of  the  time.  Each  of  the  parties  in  the  dialogue  gives 
an  account  of  the  boasted  advantages  of  his  own  particular  calling, 
that  is,  of  the  frauds  which  he  practises  on  credulity  and  igno- 
rance, and  is  laughed  at  by  the  others  in  turn.  In  fact,  they  all 
of  them  strive  to  outbrave  each  other,  till  the  contest  becomes  a 
jest,  and  it  ends  in  a  wager  who  shall  tell  the  greatest  lie,  when 


116  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

the  prize  is  adjudged  to  him  who  says  that  he  had  found  a  patient 
woman.*  The  common  superstitions  (here  recorded)  in  civil  and 
religious  matters  are  almost  incredible ;  and  the  chopped  logic, 
which  was  the  fashion  of  the  time,  and  which  comes  in  aid  of  the 
author's  shrewd  and  pleasant  sallies  to  expose  them,  is  highly- 
entertaining.  Thus  the  Pardoner,  scorning  the  Palmer's  long 
pilgrijaiagcs  and  circuitous  road  to  heaven,  flouts  him  to  his  face, 
and  vaunts  his  own  superior  pretensions: 

"  Pard.     By  the  first  part  of  this  last  tale, 
It  seemeth  you  came  of  late  from  the  ale: 
For  reason  on  your  side  so  far  doth  fail, 
That  you  leave  reasoning,  and  begin  to  rail. 
Wherein  you  forget  j'our  own  part  clearly, 
For  you  be  as  untrue  as  I: 
But  in  one  part  you  are  beyond  me, 
For  you  may  lie  by  authority, 
And  all  that  have  wandered  so  far, 
That  no  man  can  be  their  controller, 
And  where  you  esteem  your  labour  so  much 
I  say  yet  again,  my  pardons  are  such. 
That  if  there  were  a  thousand  souls  on  a  heap, 
I  would  bring  them  all  to  heaven  as  good  sheep, 
As  you  have  brought  yourself  on  pilgrimage, 
In  the  la§t  quarter  of  your  voyage, 
Which  is  far  a-this  side  heaven,  by  Qod: 
There  your  labour  and  pardon  is  odd. 
With  small  cost  without  any  pain. 
These  pardons  bring  them  to  heaven  plain: 
Give  me  but  a  penny  or  two-pence, 
And  as  soon  as  the  soul  departeth  hence, 
In  half  an  hour,  or  three  quarters  at  the  most, 
The  soul  is  in  heaven  with  the  Holy  Ghost." 

The  Poticary  does  not  approve  of  this  arrogance  of  the  Friar, 
and  undertakes,  in  mood  and  figure,  to  prove  them  both  "  false 
knaves."  It  is  he,  he  says,  who  sends  most  souls  to  heaven, 
and  who  ought,  therefore,  to  have  the  credit  of  it. 

"  No  soul,  ye  know,  cntcrcth  hcavcn-gate, 

Till  from  the  body  he  be  separate: 

And  whom  have  ye  known  die  honestly, 

♦  Or,  never  known  one  otherwise  them  patient 


ON  SINGLE  PLAYS,  POEMS,  ETC.  117 

Without  help  of  the  Poticary  1 
Nay,  all  that  cometh  to  our  handling, 
Except  ye  hap  to  come  to  hanging. 
Since  of  our  souls  the  multitude 
I  send  to  heaven,  when  all  is  view'd 
Who  should  but  I  then  altogether 
Have  thank  of  all  their  coming  thither  V 

The  Pardoner  here  interrupts  him  captiously — 

"  If  ye  kill'd  a  thousand  in  an  hour's  space, 
When  come  they  to  heaven,  dying  out  of  grace  1" 

But  the  Poticary,  not  so  baffled,  retorts — 

"  If  a  tliousand  pardons  about  your  necks  were  tied  ; 
When  come  they  to  heaven,  if  they  never  died 
******* 

But  when  ye  feel  your  conscience  ready, 
I  can  send  you  to  heaven  very  quickly." 

The  Pedlar  finds  out  the  weak  side  of  his  new  companions, 
and  tells  them  very  bluntly,  on  their  referring  their  dispute  to  him, 
a  piece  of  his  mind. 

"  Now  have  I  found  one  mastery, 
That  ye  can  do  indifferently; 
And  it  is  neither  selling  nor  buying. 
But  even  only  very  lying." 

At  this  game  of  imposture,  the  cunning  dealer  in  pins  and 
laces  undertakes  to  judge  their  merits  ;  and  they  accordingly  set 
to  work  like  regular  graduates.  The  Pardoner  takes  the  lead, 
with  an  account  of  the  virtues  of  his  relics  ;  and  here  we  may 
find  a  plentiful  mixture  of  popish  superstition  and  indecency. 
The  bigotry  of  any  age  is  by  no  means  a  test  of  its  piety,  or 
even  sincerity.  Men  seemed  to  make  themselves  amends  for  the 
enormity  of  their  faith  by  levity  of  feeling,  as  well  as  by  laxity 
of  principle  ;  and  in  the  indifference  or  ridicule  with  which  they 
treated  the  wil'ful  absurdities  and  extravagances  to  which  they 
hood-winked  their  understandings,  almost  resembled  children 
playing  at  blindman's-buff,  who  grope  their  way  in  the  dark, 
and  make  blunders  on  purpose  to  laugh  at  their  own  idleness  and 


118  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

folly.  The  sort  of  mummery  at  which  popish  bigotry  used  to 
play  at  the  time  when  this  old  comedy  was  written,  was  not  quite 
so  harmless  as  blindman's-bufT:  what  was  sport  to  her,  was  death 
to  others.  She  lauglied  at  her  own  mockeries  of  common  sense 
and  true  religion,  and  murdered  while  she  laughed.  The  tragic 
farce  was  no  longer  to  be  borne,  and  it  w^as  partly  put  an  end 
to.  At  present,  though  her  eyes  are  blind-folded,  her  hands  are 
tied  fast  behind  her,  like  the  false  Duessa's.  The  sturdy  genius 
of  modern  philosophy  has  got  her  in  much  the  same  situation 
that  Count  Fathom  has  the  old  woman  that  he  lashes  before  him 
from  the  robbers'  cave  in  the  forest.  In  the  following  dialogue 
of  this  lively  satire,  the  most  sacred  mysteries  of  the  Catholic 
faith  are  mixed  up  with  its  idlest  legends  by  old  Heywood,  who 
was  a  martyr  to  his  religious  zeal,  without  the  slightest  sense  of 
impropriety.  The  Pardoner  cries  out  in  one  place  (like  a  lusty 
Friar  John,  or  a  trusty  Friar  Onion) — 

"  Lo.  here  be  pardons,  half  a  dozen, 

For  ghostly  riches  they  liave  no  cousin 

And,  moreover,  to  me  they  bring 

Suificient  succour  for  my  living. 

And  here  be  relics  of  such  a  kind 

As  in  this  world  no  man  can  find. 

Kneel  down  all  three,  and  when  ye  leave  kissing, 

Who  list  to  offer  shall  have  my  blessing. 

Friends,  here  shall  ye  see,  even  anon, 

Of  AU-Hallovys  the  blessed  jaw-bone. 

Mark  well  this,  this  relic  here  is  a  whipper; 

My  friends  unfeigned,  here's  a  slipper 

Of  one  of  the  seven  sleepers,  be  sure. — 

Here  is  an  eye-tooth  of  the  great  Turk : 

Whose  eyes  be  once  set  on  this  piece  of  work, 

May  happily  lose  part  of  his  eye-sight, 

But  not  all  till  he  be  blind  outright. 

Kiss  it  hardly,  with  good  devotion. 

Pol.     This  kiss  shall  bring  us  much  promotion  : 
Fogh  !  by  St.  Saviour,  I  never  kiss'd  a  worse. 

******** 
For,  by  All-Hallows,  yet  mcthinketh 
That  All-Hallows'  breath  stinketh. 

Pnlin.     Ye  judge  All-Hallows'  breath  unknown: 
*  If  any  breath  stink,  it  is  your  own. 


ON  SINGLE  PLAYS,  POEMS,  ETC.  US? 


Pot.     I  know  mine  own  breath  from  All-Hallows, 
Or  else  it  were  time  to  kiss  the  gallows. 

Pard.    Nay,  sirs,  here  may  ye  see 
The  great  toe  of  the  Trinity: 
Who  10  this  toe  any  money  voweth, 
And  once  may  roll  it  in  his  mouth, 
All  his  life  after  I  undertake 
He  shall  never  be  vex'd  with  the  tooth-ache. 

Pot.     I  pray  you  turn  that  relic  about ; 
Either  the  Trinity  had  the  gout, 
Or  else,  because  it  is  three  toes  in  one, 
God  made  it  as  much  as  three  toes  alone. 

Pard.    Well,  let  that  pass,  and  look  upon  this : 
Here  is  a  relic  that  doth  not  miss 
To  help  the  least  as  well  as  the  most: 
This  is  a  buttock-bone  of  Pentecost. 
******* 

Here  is  a  box  full  of  humble-bees, 
That  stung  Eve  as  she  sat  on  her  knees 
Tasting  the  fruit  to  her  forbidden  : 
Who  kisseth  the  bees  within  this  hidden, 
Shall  have  as  much  pardon  of  right. 
As  for  any  relic  he  kiss'd  this  night. 
Good  friends,  I  have  yet  here  in  this  glass, 
Which  on  the  drink  at  the  wedding  was 
Of  Adam  and  Eve  undoubtedly  : 
If  ye  honour  this  relic  devoutly. 
Although  ye  thirst  no  whit  the  less. 
Yet  shall  ye  drink  the  more,  doubtless. 
After  which  drinking,  ye  shall  be  as  meet 
To  stand  on  your  head  as  on  3'our  feet." 

The  same  sort  of  significant  irony  runs  through  the  Apothe- 
cary's knavish  enumeration  of  miraculous  cures  in  his  possession  : 

"  For  this  medicine  helpeth  one  and  other. 

And  bringeth  them  in  case  that  they  need  no  other. 

Here  is  a  syrapus  de  Byzansis, — ■ 

A  Rttle  thing  is  enough  of  this  ; 

For  even  the  weight  of  one  scrippal 

Shall  make  you  as  strong  as  a  cripple. 

These  be  the  things  that  break  all  strife 

Between  man's  sickness  and  his  life. 

From  all  pain  these  shall  you  deliver, 

And  set  you  even  at  rest  for  ever. 

Here  is  a  medicine  no  more  like  the  same, 


120  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

Which  commonly  is  called  thus  by  name. 

Not  one  thing  here  particularly, 

But  worketh  universally; 

For  it  doth  me  as  much  good  when  I  sell  it, 

As  all  the  buyers  that  take  it  or  smell  it. 

If  any  reward  may  entreat  ye, 

I  beseech  your  mastership  be  good  to  me, 

And  ye  shall  have  a  box  of  marmalade, 

So  fine  that  you  may  dig  it  with  a  spade." 

After  these  quaint  but  pointed  examples  of  it.  Swift's  boast 
with  respect  to  the  invention  of  irony, 

"  Which  I  was  bom  to  introduce, 
Refin'd  it  first,  and  shew'd  its  use, 

can  be  allowed  to  be  true  only  in  part. 

The  controversy  between  them  being  undecided,  the  Apothe- 
cary, to  clench  his  pretensions  "  as  a  liar  of  the  first  magnitude,*' 
by  a  coup-de-grace,  says  to  the  Pedlar,  "  You  are  an  honest  man  ;" 
but  this  home-thrust  is  somehow  ingeniously  parried.  The 
Apothecary  and  Pardoner  fall  to  their  narrative  vein  again ;  and 
the  latter  tells  a  story  of  fetching  a  young  woman  from  the  lower 
world,  from  which  I  shall  only  give  one  specimen  more  as  an 
instance  of  ludicrous  and  fantastic  exaggeration.  By  the  help 
of  a  passport  from  Lucifer,  "  given  in  the  furnace  of  our  palace," 
he  obtains  a  safe  conduct  from  one  of  the  subordinate  imps  to 
his  master's  presence : 

"  This  devil  and  I  walked  arm  in  arm 
So  far,  till  he  had  brought  me  thither, 
Where  all  the  devils  of  hell  together 
Stood  in  array  in  such  apparel, 
As  for  that  day  there  meetly  fell. 
Their  horns  well  gilt,  their  claws  full  clean, 
Their  tails  well  kempt,  and,  as  I  ween, 
With  sothery  butter  their  bodies  anointed; 
I  never  saw  devils  so  well  appointed. 
The  master-devil  sat  in  his  jacket. 
And  all  the  souls  were  playing  at  racket. 
None  other  rackets  they  had  in  hand, 
Save  every  soul  a  good  fire-brand  ; 
Wherewith  they  play'd  so  prettily, 
That  Lucifer  laughed  merrily. 


ON  SINGLE  PLAYS,  POEMS,  ETC.  131 

And  all  the  residue  of  the  fiends 

Did  laugh  thereat  full  well,  like  friends. 

But  of  my  friend  I  saw  no  whit, 

Nor  durst  not  ask  for  her  as  yet. 

Anon  all  this  rout  was  brought  in  silence. 

And  I  by  an  usher  brought  to  presence 

Of  Lucifer ;  then  low,  as  well  I  could, 

I  kneeled,  which  he  so  well  allow'd 

That  thus  he  beck'd,  and  by  St.  Antony 

He  smiled  on  me  well-favour'dly. 

Bending  his  brows  as  broad  as  barn  doors; 

Shaking  his  ears  as  rugged  as  burrs; 

Rolling  his  eyes  as  round  as  two  bushels; 

Flashing  the  fire  out  of  his  nostrils  ; 

Gnashing  his  teeth  so  vain-gloriously, 

That  methought  time  to  fall  to  flattery, 

Wherewith  I  told,  as  I  shall  tell ; 

Oh  pleasant  picture !  O  prince  of  hell !"  Ace. 

The  piece  concludes  with  some  good  wholesome  advice  from 
the  Pedlar,  who  here,  as  well  as  in  the  poem  of  the  •  Excursion,^ 
performs  the  part  of  Old  Morality  ;  but  he  does  not  seem,  as  in 
the  latter  case,  to  be  acquainted  with  the  "  mighty  stream  of 
Tendency."'  He  is  more  full  o^  '•'  wise  saws"  than  "  modern 
instances  ;"  as  prosing,  but  less  paradoxical ! 

"  But  where  ye  doubt,  the  truth  not  knowing, 
Believing  the  best,  good  may  be  growing. 
In  judging  the  best,  no  harm  at  the  least; 
In  judging  the  worst,  no  good  at  the  best. 
But  best  in  these  things,  it  seemeth  to  me, 
To  make  no  judgment  upon  ye; 
But  as  the  church  does  judge  or  take  them, 
So  do  ye  receive  or  forsake  them. 
And  so  be  you  sure  you  cannot  err, 
But  may  be  a  fruitful  follower." 

Nothing  can  be  clearer  than  this. 

The  '  Return  from  Parnassus'  was  "  first  publicly  acted,"  as 
the  title-page  imports,  "  by  the  students  in  St.  John's  College, 
Cambridge."  It  is  a  very  singular,  a  very  ingenious,  and,  as  I 
think,  a  very  interesting  performance.  It  contains  criticisms  on 
contemporary  authors,  strictures  on  living  manners,  and  the 
earliest  denunciation  (I  know  of)  of  the  miseries  and  unprofit- 
9 


122  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 


ableness  of  a  scholar's  life.  The  only  part  I  object  to  in  our 
author's  criticism  is  his  abuse  of  Marston  ;  and  that,  not  because 
he  says  what  is  severe,  but  because  he  says  what  is  not  true  of 
him.  Anger  may  sharpen  our  insight  into  men's  defects ;  but 
nothing  should  make  us  blind  to  their  excellences.  The  whole 
passage  is,  however,  so  curious  in  itself  (like  the  '  Edinburgh 
Review'  lately  published  for  the  year  1755)  that  I  cannot  forbear 
quoting  a  great  part  of  it.  We  fmd  in  the  list  of  candidates  for 
praise  many  a  name — 

"  That  like  a  trumpet  makes  the  spirits  dance;" 

there  are  others  that  have  long  since  sunk  to  the  bottom  of  the 
stream  of  time,  and  no  Humane  Society  of  Antiquarians  and 
Critics  is  ever  likely  to  fish  them  up  again. 

"  Judicio.     Read  the  names. 

Jngenioso.     So  I  will,  if  thou  wilt  help  me  to  censure  them. 
Edmund  Spenser,  John  Davis, 

Henry  Constable,  John  Marston, 

Thomas  Lodge,  Kit  Marlowe, 

Samuel  Daniel,  William  Shakspcare ; 

Thomas  Watson,  and  one  Churchyard, 

Michael  Drayton,  [who  is  consigned  to  an  untimely  grave.] 

Good  men  and  true,  stand  together,  hear  your  censure :  what's  thy  judg- 
ment of  Spenser  1 

Jud.     A  sweeter  swan  than  ever  sung  in  Po  ; 

A  shriller  nightingale  than  ever  blest 

The  prouder  groves  o{  self  admiring  Rome, 

Blithe  was  each  valley,  and  each  shepherd  proud, 

While  he  did  chaunt  his  rural  minstrelsy. 

Attentive  was  full  many  a  dainty  ear : 

Nay,  hearers  hung  upon  his  melting  tongue. 

While  sweetly  of  his  Faery  Q.ueen  he  sung ; 

While  to  the  water's  fall  he  tun'd  her  fame, 

And  in  each  bark  engrav'd  Eliza's  name. 

And  yet  for  all,  this  unregarding  soil 

Unlaced  the  line  of  his  desired  life, 

Denying  maintenance  for  his  dear  relief; 

Careless  even  to  prevent  his  exequy,  # 

Scarce  deigning  to  shut  up  his  dying  eye. 

Ing.     Pity  it  is  that  gentler  wits  should  breed, 

"Where  thick-skinned  chuffs  laugh  at  a  scholar's  need. 

But  softly  may  our  honour'd  ashes  rest, 

That  lie  by  merry  Chaucer's  noble  chest. 


ON  SINGLE  PLAYS,  POEMS,  ETC.  123 

But  I  pray  thee  proceed  briefly  in  thy  censure,  that  I  may  be  proud  of  my- 
self, as  in  the  first,  so  in  the  last,  my  censure  may  jump  with  thine,  Henry 
Constable,  Samuel  Daniel,  Thomas  Lodge,  Thomas  Watson. 

Jud.     Sweet  Constable  doth  take  the  wondering  ear, 
And  lays  it  up  in  willing  prisonment : 
Sweet  honey-dropping  Daniel  doth  wage 
"War  with  the  proudest  big  Italian, 
That  melts  his  heart  in  sugar'd  sonnetting. 
Only  let  him  more  sparingly  make  use 
Of  others'  wit,  and  use  his  own  the  more, 
That  well  may  scorn  base  imitation. 
For  Lodge  and  Watson,  men  of  some  desert, 
Yet  subject  to  a  critic's  marginal; 
Lodge  for  his  oar  in  every  paper  boat, 
He  that  turns  over  Galen  every  day. 
To  sit  and  simper  Euphues'  legacy. 

Ing.     Michael  Drayton. 

Jud.    Drayton's  sweet  Muse  is  like  a  sanguine  dye, 
Able  to  ravish  the  rash  gazer's  eye. 

Ing.  However,  he  wants  one  true  note  of  a  poet  of  our  times ;  and  that 
is  this,  he  cannot  swagger  in  a  tavern,  nor  domineer  in  a  pot-house.  John 
Davis — 

Jud.    Acute  John  Davis,  I  affect  thy  rhymes, 
That  jerk  in  hidden  charms  these  looser  times : 
Thy  plainer  verse,  thy  unaffected  vein. 
Is  graced  with  a  fair  and  sweeping  train. 

Ing.     John  Marston — 

J\Ld.    What,  Monsieur  Kinsayder,  put  up,  man,  put  up  for  shame. 
Methinks  he  is  a  ruffian  in  his  style, 
Withouten  bands  or  garters'  ornament. 
He  quaffs  a  cup  of  Frenchman's  helicon, 
Then  royster  doyster  in  his  oily  terms 
Cuts,  thrusts,  and  foins  at  whomsoe'er  he  meets, 
And  strews  about  Ram-alley  meditations. 
Tut,  what  cares  he  for  modest  close-couch'd  terms, 
Cleanly  to  gird  our  looser  libertines  % 
Give  him  plain  naked  words  stript  from  their  shirts, 
That  might  beseem  plain-dealing  Aretine. 

Ing.     Christopher  Marlowe — 

Jvd.    Marlowe  was  happy  in  his  buskin'd  Muse ; 
Alas !  unhappy  in  his  life  and  end. 
Pity  it  is  that  wit  so  ill  should  dwell, 
Wit  lent  from  heaven,  but  vices  sent  from  hell.  - 

Ing.    Our  theatre  hath  lost,  Pluto  hath  got 
A  tragic  penman  for  a  dreary  plot. 
Benjamin  Jonson — 

Jvd^    The  wittiest  fellow  of  a  briddayer  in  England* 


124  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 


Ing.  A  mere  empiric,  one  that  gets  what  he  hath  by  obserration,  and 
makes  only  nature  privy  to  what  he  endites :  so  slow  an  inventor,  that  he 
were  better  betake  himself  to  his  old  trade  of  bricklaying;  a  blood  whoreson, 
as  confident  now  in  making  of  a  book,  as  he  was  in  times  past  in  laying  of 
a  brick. 
William  Shakspeare. 

Jud.     Who  loves  Adonis'  love,  or  Lucrece'  rape, 
His  sweeter  verse  contains  heart-robbing  life. 
Could  but  a  graver  subject  him  content. 
Without  love's  lazy  foolish  languishment." 

This  passage  might  seem  to  ascertain  the  date  of  the  piece,  as  it 
must  be  supposed  to  have  been  written  before  Shakspeare  had 
become  known  as  a  dramatic  poet.  Yet  he  afterwards  intro- 
duces Kempe  the  actor  talking  with  Burbage,  and  saying,  "  Few 
(of  the  University)  pens  play  well :  they  smell  too  much  of  that 
writer  Ovid,  and  of  that  writer  Metamorphosis,  and  talk  too 
much  of  Proserpina  and  Jupiter.  Why,  here's  our  fellow  Shak- 
speare puts  them  all  down ;  ay,  and  Ben  Jonson  too." — There  is 
a  good  deal  of  discontent  in  all  this ;  but  the  author  complains 
of  want  of  success  in  a  former  attempt,  and  appears  not  to  have 
been  on  good  terms  with  fortune.  The  miseries  of  a  poet's  life 
forms  one  of  the  favourite  topics  of  '  The  Return  from  Parnas- 
sus,' and  are  treated  as  if  by  some  one  who  had  "  felt  them 
knowingly."  Thus  Philomusus  and  Studioso  chaunt  their  griefs 
in  concert. 

"  Phil.     Bann'd  be  those  hours,  when  'mongst  the  learned  throng, 
By  Granta's  muddy  bank  we  whilom  sung. 

Stud.     Bann'd  be  that  hill  which  learned  wits  adore, 
Where  erst  we  spent  our  stock  and  little  store. 

Phil.    Bann'd  be  those  musty  mews,  where  we  have  spent 
Our  youthful  days  in  paled  languishment. 

Slud.     Bann'd  be  those  cozening  arts  that  wrought  our  woe, 
Making  us  wandering  pilgrims  to  and  fro. 

PhU.     Curst  be  our  thoughts  whene'er  they  dream  of  hope; 
Bann'd  be  those  haps  that  henceforth  flatter  us, 
When  mischief  dogs  us  still,  and  still  for  aye, 
From  our  fust  birth  until  our  burying  day. 
In  our  first  gamesome  age,  our  doting  sires 
Carkcd  and  car'd  to  have  us  lettered : 
Sent  us  to  Cambridge  where  our  oil  is  spent: 
Us  our  kind  collooc  from  the  teat  did  tent, 
And  forced  us  walk  before  we  weaned  were. 


ON  SINGLE  PLAYS,  POEMS,  ETC.  125 

From  that  time  since  wandered  have  we  still 

In  the  wide  world,  urg'd  by  our  forced  will; 

Nor  ever  have  we  happy  fortune  tried  ; 

Then  why  should  hope  with  our  rent  state  abide  V 

"  Out  of  our  proof  we  speak." — This  sorry  matter-of-fact  re- 
trospect of  the  evils  of  a  college  life  is  very  different  from  the 
hypothetical  aspirations  after  its  incommunicable  blessings  ex- 
pressed by  a  living  writer  of  true  genius  and  a  lover  of  true 
learning,  who  does  not  seem  to  have  been  cured  of  the  old-fash- 
ioned prejudice  in  favour  of  classic  lore,  two  hundred  years  after 
its  vanity  and  vexation  of  spirit  had  been  denounced  in  '  The 
Return  from  Parnassus  :' — 

"  I  was  not  trained  in  academic  bowers ; 

And  to  those  learned  streams  I  nothing  owe, 

Which  copious  from  those  fair  twin  founts  do  flow : 

Mine  have  been  anything  but  studious  hours. 

Yet  can  I  fancy  wandering  'mid  thy  towers, 

Myself  a  nursling,  Granta,  of  thy  lap. 

My  brow  seems  tightening  with  the  Doctor's  cap ; 

And  I  walk  gowned ;  feel  unusual  powers. 

Strange  forms  of  logic  clothe  my  admiring  speech; 

Old  Ramus'  ghost  is  busy  at  my  brain, 

And  my  skull  teems  with  notions  infinite: 

Be  still,  ye  reeds  of  Camus,  while  I  teach 

Truths  which  transcend  the  searching  schoolmen's  vein ; 

And  half  had  stagger'd  that  stout  Stagyrite."* 

Thus  it  is  that  our  treasure  always  lies  where  our  knowledge 
does  not,  and  fortunately  enough  perhaps;  for  the  empire  of 
imagination  is  wider  and  more  prolific  than  that  of  experience. 

The  author  of  the  old  play,  whoever  he  was,  appears  to  have 
belonged  to  that  class  of  mortals,  who,  as  Fielding  has  it,  feed 
upon  their  own  hearts ;  who  are  egotists  the  wrong  way,  made 
desperate  by  too  quick  a  sense  of  constant  infelicity ;  and  have 
the  same  intense  uneasy  consciousness  of  their  own  defects  that 
most  men  have  self-complacency  in  their  supposed  advantages. 
Thus  venting  the  driblets  of  his  spleen  still  upon  himself,  he 
prompts  the  Page  to  say,  "  A  mere  scholar  is  a  creature  that  can 
strike  fire  in  the  morning  at  his  tinder-box,  put  on  a  pair  of  lined 

*  *  Sonnet  to  Cambridge,'  by  Charles  Lamb 


136  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 


slippers,  sit  rheuming  till  dinner,  and  then  go  to  his  meat  when 
the  bell  rings ;  one  that  hath  a  peculiar  gift  in  a  cough,  and  a 
license  to  spit :  or  if  you  will  have  him  defined  by  negatives,  he 
is  one  that  cannot  make  a  good  leg,  one  that  cannot  eat  a  mess 
of  broth  cleanly,  one  that  cannot  ride  a  horse  without  spur-gall- 
ing, one  that  cannot  salute  a  woman  and  look  on  her  directly, 

one  that  cannot " 

If  I  was  not  afraid  of  being  tedious,  I  might  here  give  the 
examination  of  Signor  Immerito,  a  raw  ignorant  clown  (whose 
father  has  purchased  him  a  living,)  by  Sir  Roderick  and  the  Re- 
corder, which  throws  a  considerable  light  on  the  state  of  wit  and 
humour,  as  well  as  of  ecclesiastical  patronage  in  the  reign  of 
Elizabeth.  It  is  to  be  recollected  that  one  of  the  titles  of  this 
play  is  "  A  Scourge  for  Simony.' 

Rec.  For  as  much  as  nature  has  done  her  part  in  making  you  a  handsome 
likely  man — in  the  next  place  some  art  is  requisite  for  the  perfection  of  na- 
ture :  for  the  trial  whereof,  at  the  request  of  my  worshipful  friend,  I  will  in 
some  sort  propound  questions  fit  to  be  resolved  by  one  of  your  profession. 
Say  what  is  a  person  that  was  never  at  the  university  1 

Im.  A  person  that  was  never  in  the  university,  is  a  living  creature  that  can 
eat  a  tythe  pig. 

Rec.  Very  well  answered:  but  you  should  have  added — and  must  be  offici- 
ous to  his  patron.     Write  down  that  answer,  to  shew  his  learning  in  logic. 

Sir  Rod.  Yea,  boy,  write  that  down :  very  learnedly,  in  good  faith.  I  pray 
now  let  me  ask  you  one  question  that  I  remember,  whether  is  the  masculine 
gender  or  the  feminine  more  worthy  1 

Im.    The  feminine,  sir. 

Sir  Rod.  The  right  answer,  the  right  answer.  In  good  faith,  I  have  been 
of  that  mind  always:  write,  boy,  that,  to  shew  he  is  a  grammarian. 

Rec.     What  university  are  you  of? 

Im.     Of  none. 

Sir  Rod.  He  tells  truth :  to  tell  truth  is  an  excellent  virtue :  boy,  make  two 
heads,  one  for  his  learning,  another  for  his  virtues,  and  refer  this  to  the  head 
of  his  virtues,  not  of  nis  learning.  Now,  Master  Recorder,  if  it  please  you,  I 
■will  examine  him  in  an  author,  that  will  sound  him  to  the  depth  ;  a  book  of 
astronomy,  otherwise  called  an  almanack. 

Rec.  Very  good.  Sir  Roderick  ;  it  were  to  be  wished  there  were  no  other 
book  of  humanity ;  then  there  would  not  be  such  busy  state-prying  fellows  as 
are  now  a-days.     Proceed,  good  sir. 

Sir  Rod.    What  is  the  dominical  lettei  % 

Im.     C,  sir,  and  please  your  worship. 

Sir  Rod.    A  very  good  answer,  a  very  good  answer,  the  very  answer  of  the 


ON  SINGLE  FLAYS,  POEMS,  ETC.  1S7 

book.  Write  down  that,  and  refer  it  to  his  skill  in  philosophy.  How  many 
days  hath  September  1 

Im.  Thirty  days  hath  September.  April,  June,  and  November,  February 
hath  twenty-eight  alone,  and  all  the  rest  hath  thirty  and  one. 

Sir  Bo 'L  Very  learnedly,  in  good  faith:  he  hath  also  a  smack  in  poetry. 
"Write  down  that,  boy,  to  show  his  learning  in  poetry.  How  many  miles  fiora 
Waltham  to  London '? 

Im.     Twelve,  sir. 

Sir  Rod.     How  many  from  Newmarket  to  Grantham  1 

Im.    Ten,  sir. 

Sir  Bod.  Write  down  that  answer  of  his,  to  show  his  learning  in  arith- 
metic. 

Page.  He  must  needs  be  a  good  arithmetician  that  counted  [out]  money 
so  lately. 

Sir  Rod.     When  is  the  new  moon  1 

Im.  The  last  quarter,  the  fifth  day,  at  two  of  the  clock,  and  thirty-eight 
minutes,  in  the  morning. 

Sir  Rod.     How  call  you  him  that  is  weather-wise  1 

Rec.     A  good  astronomer. 

Sir  Rod.  Sirrah,  boy,  write  him  down  for  a  good  astronomer.  What  day 
of  the  month  lights  the  queen's  day  on  T- 

Im.    The  17th  of  November. 

Sir  Rod.  Boy,  refer  this  to  his  virtues,  and  write  him  down  a  good  sub- 
ject. 

Page.  Faith,  he  were  an  excellent  subject  for  two  or  three  good  wits;  he 
would  make  a  fine  ass  for  an  ape  to  ride  upon. 

Sir  Rod.  And  these  shall  suffice  for  the  parts  of  his  learning.  Now  it  re- 
mains to  try,  whether  you  be  a  man  of  a  good  utterance,  that  is,  whether  you 
can  ask  for  the  strayed  heifer  with  the  white  face,  as  also  chide  the  boys  in  the 
belfry,  and  bid  the  sexton  whip  out  the  dogs:  let  me  hear  your  voice. 

Im.     If  any  man  or  woman — 

Sir  Rod.     That's  too  high. 

Im.     If  any  man  or  woman. 

Sir  Rod.     That's  too  low. 

Im.  If  any  man  or  woman  can  tell  any  tidings  of  a  horse  with  four  feet, 
two  ears,  that  did  stray  about  the  seventh  hour,  three  minutes  in  the  forenoon, 
the  fifth  day — 

Sir  Rod.  Boy,  write  him  down  for  a  good  utterance.  Master  Recorder,  I 
think  he  hath  been  examined  sufficiently. 

Rec.    Ay,  Sir  Roderick,  'tis  so :  we  have  tried  him  very  thoroughly. 

Page.  Ay,  we  have  taken  an  inventory  of  his  good  parts,  and  prized  them 
accordingly. 

Sir  Rod.  Signior  Immerito,  forasmuch  as  we  have  made  a  double  trial  of 
thee,  the  one  of  your  learning,  the  other  of  your  erudition ;  it  is  expedient,  also, 
in  the  next  place,  to  give  you  a  few  exhortations,  considering  the  greatest 
clerks  are  not  the  wisest  men  :  this  is  therefore  first  to  exhort  you  to  abstain 


128  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

from  controversies;  secondly,  not  to  gird  at  men  of  worsliip,  such  as  myself, 
but  to  use  yourself  discreetly  ;  thirdly,  not  to  speak  wb.en  any  man  or  woman 
coiwhs:  do  so,  and  in  so  doing,  I  will  persevere  to  be  your  worshipful  friend 
and  loving  patron.  Lead  Immerito  in  to  my  son,  and  let  him  despatch  him, 
and  remember  my  tythes  to  be  reserved,  paying  twelve-pence  a-year. 

'  Gammer  Gurton's  Needle'*  is  a  still  older  and  more  curious 
relic ;  and  is  a  regular  comedy  in  five  acts,  built  on  the  circum- 
stance of  an  old  woman  having  lost  her  needle,  which  throws  the 
whole  village  into  confusion,  till  it  is  at  last  providentially  found 
sticking  in  an  unlucky  part  of  Hodge's  dress.  This  must  evi- 
dently have  happened  at  a  time  when  the  manufacturers  of  Shef- 
iield  and  Birmingham  had  not  reached  the  height  of  perfection 
which  they  have  at  present  done.  Suppose  that  there  is  only 
one  sewing-needle  in  a  parish,  that  the  owner,  a  diligent,  notable 
old  dame,  loses  it,  that  a  mischief-making  wag  sets  it  about  that 
another  old  woman  has  stolen  this  valuable  instrument  of  house- 
hold industry,  that  strict  search  is  made  everywhere  in-doors  for 
it  in  vain,  and  that  then  the  incensed  parties  sally  forth  to  scold 
it  out  in  the  open  air,  till  words  end  in  blows,  and  the  affair  is 
referred  over  to  the  higher  authorities,  and  we  shall  have  an 
exact  idea  (though  perhaps  not  so  lively  a  one)  of  what  passes 
in  this  authentic  document  between  Gammer  Gurton  and  her 
Gossip  Dame  Chat,  Diccon  the  Bedlam  (the  causer  of  these 
harms),  Hodge,  Gammer  Gurton's  servant,  Tyb,  her  maid,  Cocke, 
her  'prentice  boy,  Doll,  Scapethrift,  Master  Baillie,  his  master, 
Doctor  Rat,  the  curate,  and  Gib  the  Cat,  who  may  be  fairly 
reckoned  one  of  the  dramatis  personam,  and  performs  no  mean 
part. 

"  Gog's  crosse,  Gammer"  (says  Cocke,  the  boy),  "if  ye  will  laugh,  look  in 

but  at  the  door. 
And  see  how  Hodge  lieth  tumbling  and  tossing  amidst  the  floor. 
Raking  there  some  fire  to  find  among  the  ashes  deadt 
Whore  there  is  not  a  spark  so  big  as  a  pin's  head  : 
At  last  in  a  dark  corner  two  sparks  he  thought  he  sees, 
Which  were  indeed  nought  else  but  Gib  our  cat's  two  eyes. 

♦  The  name  of  Still  has  been  assigned  as  the  author  of  this  singular  produc- 
tion, with  the  date  of  15GG. 

t  That  is,  to  hght  a  candleto  look  for  the  lost  needle. 


ON  SINGLE  PLAYS,  POEMS,  ETC.  129 

PufF,  quoth  Hodge;  thinking  thereby  to  have  fire  without  doubt; 

With  that  Gib  shut  her  two  eyes,  and  so  the  fire  was  out ; 

And  by  and  by  them  opened,  even  as  they  were  before. 

With  that  the  sparks  appeared,  even  as  they  had  done  of  yore; 

And  even  as  Hodge  blew  the  fire,  as  he  did  think, 

Gib,  as  he  felt  the  blast,  straightway  began  to  wink ; 

Till  Hodge  fell  of  swearing,  as  came  best  to  his  turn; 

The  fire  was  sure  bewitch'd,  and  therefore  would  not  burn. 

At  last  Gib  up  the  stairs,  among  old  posts  and  pins, 

And  Hodge  he  hied  him  after,  till  broke  were  both  his  shins; 

Cursing  and  swearing  oaths,  were  never  of  his  making. 

That  Gib  would  fire  the  house,  if  that  she  were  not  taken." 

Diccon,  the  strolling  beggar  (or  Bedlam,  as  he  is  called,)  steals 
a  piece  of  bacon  from  behind  Gammer  Gurton's  door,  and  in  an- 
swer to  Hodge's  complaint  of  being  dreadfully  pinched  for  hun- 
ger, asks — 

"Why,  Hodge,  was  there  none  at  home  thy  dinner  for  to  set*? 

Hodge.     Gog's  bread,  Diccon,  I  came  too  late,  was  nothing  there  to  get:    ' 
Gib  (a  foul  fiend  might  on  her  light)  lik'd  the  milk-pan  so  clean: 
See,  Diccon,  'twas  not  so  well  washed  this  seven  year  I  ween. 
A  pestilence  light  on  all  ill  luck,  I  had  thought  yet  for  all  this, 
Of  a  morsel  of  bacon  behind  the  door,  at  worst  I  should  not  miss: 
But  when  I  sought  a  slip  to  cut,  as  I  was  wont  to  do, 
Gog's  souls,  Diccon,  Gib  our  cat  had  eat  the  bacon  too." 

Hodge's  difficulty  in  making  Diccon  understand  what  the  nee- 
dle is  which  his  dame  has  lost,  shows  his  superior  acquaintance 
with  the  conveniences  and  modes  of  abridging  labour  in  more 
civilized  life,  of  which  the  other  had  no  idea. 

"  Hodge.     Has  she  not  gone,  trowest  now  thou,  and  lost  her  neele  T'     [So 

it  is  called  here.] 
^^  Die.  {says  staring.)    Her  eel,  Hodge  1    Who  fished  of  late*?    That  was 

a  dainty  dish. 
Hodge.    Tush,  tush,  her  neele,  her  neele,  her  neele,  man,  'tis  neither  flesh 
nor  fish : 
A  little  thing  with  a  hole  in  the  end,  as  bright  as  any  siller  [silver], 
Small,  long,  sharp  at  the  point,  and  strait  as  any  pillar. 

Die.    I  know  not  what  a  devil  thou  mean'st,  thou  bring'st  me  more  in 

doubt. 
Hodge,  {ansvxrs  with  disdain).    Know'st  not  with  what  Tom  tailor's  man 
sits  broching  through  a  clout  ^ 
A  neele,  a  neele,  my  Gammer's  neele  is  gone." 


130  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 


The  rogue  Diccon  threatens  to  show  Hodge  a  spirit;  but 
though  Hodge  runs  away  through  pure  fear  before  it  has  time  to 
appear,  he  does  not  fail,  in  the  true  spirit  of  credulity,  to  give  a 
faithful  and  alarming  account  of  what  he  did  not  see  to  his  mis- 
tress,  concluding  with  a  hit  at  the  Popish  clergy. 

"  By  the  mass,  I  sa^  him  of  late  call  up  a  great  black  devil. 

Oh,  the  knave  cried,  ho,  ho,  he  roared  and  thunder'd; 

And  ye  had  been  there,  I  am  sure,  you'd  murrainly  ha'  wonder'd. 
Gam.     Wast  not  thou  afraid,  Hodge,  to  see  him  in  his  place  1 
Hodge,  (lies  and  says).    No  and  he  had  come  to  me,  should  have  laid  him 
on  his  face, 

Should  have  promised  him. 

Gam.     But,  Hodge,  had  he  no  horns  to  push  1 

Hodge.    As  long  as  your  two  arms.     Saw  ye  never  Friar  Rush, 

Painted  on  a  cloth,  with  a  fine  long  cow's  tail. 

And  crooked  cloven  feet,  and  many  a  hooked  nail  1 

For  all  the  world  (if  I  should  judge)  should  reckon  him  his  brother: 

Look  even  what  face  Friar  Rush  had,  the  devil  had  such  another." 

He  then  adds  (quite  apocryphally)  while  he  is  in  for  it,  that  "  the 
devil  said  plainly  that  Dame  Chat  had  got  the  needle,"  which 
makes  all  the  disturbance.  The  same  play  contains  the  well- 
known  good  old  song,  beginning  and  ending — 

**  Back  and  side  go  bare,  go  bare, 
Both  foot  and  hand  go  cold : 
But  belly,  God  send  thee  good  ale  enough, 
Whether  it  be  new  or  old, 
I  cannot  eat  but  little  meat, 
My  stomach  is  not  good  ; 
But  sure  I  think,  that  I  can  drink 
With  him  that  wears  a  hood: 
Though  I  go  bare,  take  ye  no  care ; 
I  nothing  am  a-cold  : 
I  stuff  my  skin  so  full  within 
Of  jolly  good  ale  and  old. 
Back  and  side  go  bare,  &c. 

I  love  no  roast,  but  a  nut-brown  toast, 

And  a  crab  laid  in  the  fire: 

A  little  bread,  shall  do  me  stead, 

Much  bread  I  do  not  desire. 

!No  frost  or  snow,  no  wind  I  trow, 

Can  hurt  me  if  I  wolde, 

I  am  so  wrapt,  and  thoroughly  lapt 


ON  SINGLE  PLAYS,  POEMS,  ETC.  131 

In  jolly  good  ale  and  old. 
Back  and  side  go  bare,  &c 

And  Tib,  my  wife,  that  as  her  liie 
Loveth  well  good  ale  to  seek  ; 
Full  oft  drinks  she,  till  ye  may  see 
The  tears  run  down  her  cheek 
Then  doth  she  troll  to  me  the  bowl, 
Even  as  a  malt-worm  sholde : 
And  saith,  sweetheart,  I  took  my  part 
Of  this  jolly  good  ale  and  old. 

Back  and  side  go  bare,  go  bare, 

Both  foot  and  hand  go  cold: 

But  belly,  God  send  thee  good  ale  enough, 

Whether  it  be  new  or  old. 

Such  was  the  wit,  such  was  the  mirth  of  our  ancestors : — 
homely,  but  hearty ;  coarse  perhaps,  but  kindly.  Let  no  man 
despise  it,  for  "Evil  to  him  that  evil  thinks."  To  think  it  poor 
and  beneath  notice  because  it  is  not  just  like  ours,  is  the  same 
sort  of  hypercriticism  that  was  exercised  by  the  person  who  re- 
fused to  read  some  old  books,  because  they  were  "  such  very- 
poor  spelling."  The  meagreness  of  their  literary  or  their  bodily 
fare  was  at  least  relished  by  themselves  ;  and  this  is  better  than 
a  surfeit  or  an  indigestion.  It  is  refreshing  to  look  out  of  our- 
selves  sometimes,  not  to  be  always  holding  the  glass  to  our  own 
peerless  perfections  ;  and  as  there  is  a  dead  wall  which  always 
intercepts  the  prospect  of  the  future  from  our  view,  (all  that  we 
can  see  beyond  it  is  the  heavens,)  it  is  as  well  to  direct  our  eyes 
now  and  then  without  scorn  to  the  page  of  history,  and  repulsed 
in  our  attempts  to  penetrate  the  secrets  of  the  next  six  thousand 
years,  not  to  turn  our  backs  on  auld  lang  syne ! 

The  othe  r  detached  plays  of  nearly  the  same  period  of  which 
I  proposed  to  give  a  cursory  account,  are  '  Green's  Tu  Quoque,' 
*  Microcosmus,'  'Lingua,'  'The  Merry  Devil  of  Edmonton,' 
'  The  Pinner  of  Wakefield,'  and  '  The  Spanish  Tragedy.'  Of 
the  spurious  plays  attributed  to  Shakspeare,  and  to  be  found  in 
some  of  the  editions  of  his  works,  such  as  '  The  Yorkshire  Tra- 
gedy,' '  Sir  John  Oldcastle,'  '  The  Widow  of  Watling  Street.' 
&c.,  I  shall  say  nothing  here,  because  I  suppose  the  reader  to 
be  already  acquainted  with  them,  and  because  I  have  given  a 
general  account  of  them  in  another  work. 


133  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

'  Green's  Tu  Quoque,'  by  George  Cook,  a  coniemporary  of 
Shakspeare's,  is  so  called  from  Green  the  actor,  who  played  the 
part  of  Bubble  in  this  very  lively  and  elegant  comedy,  with  the 
cant  phrase  of  Tu  quoque  perpetually  in  his  mouth.  The  double 
change  of  situation  between  this  fellow  and  his  master,  Staines, 
each  passing  from  poverty  to  wealth,  and  from  wealth  to  povert}- 
again,  is  equally  well  imagined  and  executed.  A  gay  and  gal- 
lant spirit  pervades  the  whole  of  it ;  wit,  poetry,  and  morality, 
each  take  their  turn  in  it.  The  characters  of  the  two  sisters, 
Joyce  and  Gertrude,  are  very  skilfully  contrasted,  and  the  man- 
ner in  which  they  mutually  betray  one  another  into  the  hands  of 
their  lovers,  first  in  the  spirit  of  mischief,  and  afterwards  of  re- 
taliation, is  quite  dramatic.  "  If  you  cannot  find  in  your  heart 
to  tell  him  you  love  him,  I'll  sigh  it  out  for  you.  Come,  we 
little  creatures  must  help  one  another,"  says  the  Madcap  to  the 
Madonna.  As  to  style  and  matter,  this  play  has  a  number  of 
pigeon-holes  full  of  wit  and  epigrams  which  are  flying  out  in 
almost  every  sentence.  I  could  give  twenty  pointed  conceits, 
wrapped  up  in  good  set  terms.  Let  one  or  two  at  the  utmost 
suffice.  A  bad  hand  at  cards  is  thus  described.  Will  Rash 
says  to  Scattergood,  "  Thou  hast  a  wild  hand  indeed  ;  thy  small 
cards  show  like  a  troop  of  rebels,  and  the  knave  of  clubs  is  their 
chief  leader."  Bubble  expresses  a  truism  very  gaily  on  finding 
himself  equipped  like  a  gallant — "  How  apparel  makes  a  man 
respected  !  The  very  children  in  the  street  do  adore  me."  We 
find  here  the  first  mention  of  Sir  John  Suckling's  "melancholy 
hat,"  as  a  common  article  of  wear — the  same  which  he  chose  to 
clap  on  Ford's  head,  and  the  first  instance  of  the  theatrical 
double  entendre  which  has  been  repeated  ever  since  of  an  actor's 
ironically  abusing  himself  in  his  feigned  character. 

"  Gervase.    They  say  Green's  a  good  clown. 
Bubble^  (played  by  Green,  says)  Green  !  Green's  an  ass, 
Scallcrf^flod.     Wherefore  do  you  say  so  1 

Bub.     Indeed,  I  ha'  no  reason ;  for  ihcy  say  he's  as  like  me  as  ever  he  can 
look." 

The  following  description  of  the  dissipation  of  a  fortune  in  the 
hands  of  a  spendthrift  is  ingenious  and  beautiful : 


ON  SINGLE  PLAYS,  POEMS,  ETC.  133 

"  Know  that  which  made  him  gracious  in  your  eyes, 
And  gilded  o'er  his  imperfections, 
Is  wasted  and  consumed  even  like  ice. 
Which  by  the  vehemence  of  heat  dissolves, 
And  glides  to  many  rivers :  so  his  wealth, 
That  felt  a  prodigal  hand,  hot  in  expense, 
Melted  within  his  gripe,  and  from  his  cofTers 
Ran  like  a  violent  stream  to  other  men's." 

*  Microcosmus,'  by  Thomas  Nabbes,  is  a  dramatic  mask  or 
allegory,  in  which  the  Senses,  the  Soul,  a  Good  and  a  Bad  Ge- 
nius, Conscience,  &c.,  contend  for  the  dominion  of  a  man ;  and 
notwithstanding  the  awkwardness  of  the  machinery,  is  not  without 
poetry,  elegance,  and  originality.  Take  the  description  of  morn- 
ing as  a  proof : 

"  What  do  I  see  1  Blush,  grey-eyed  morn,  and  spread 
Thy  purple  shame  upon  the  mountain  tops; 
Or  pale  thyself  with  envy,  since  here  comes 
A  brighter  Venus  than  the  dull-eyed  star 
That  lights  thee  up." 

But  what  are  we  to  think  of  a  play,  of  which  the  following  is 
a  literal  list  of  the  dramatis  personcB  ? 

"  Nature,  a  fair  woman,  in  a  white  robe,  wrought  with  birds,  beasts,  fruits,  flowers, 

clouds,  stars,  &c. ;  on  her  head  a  wreath  of  flowers  interwoven  with  stars. 
Janus,  a  man  with  two  faces,  signifying  Providence,  in  a  yellow  robe,  wrought 

with  snakes,  as  he  is  deus  anni :  on  his  head  a  crown.  He  is  Nature's  husband. 
Fire,  a  fierce-countenanced  young  man,  in  a  flame-coloured  robe,  wrought 

with  gleams  of  fire ;  his  hair  red,  and  on  his  head  a  crown  of  flames.    His 

creature  a  Vulcan. 
Air,  a  young  man  of  a  variable  countenance,  in  a  blue  robe,  wrought  with 

divers  coloured  clouds;  his  hair  blue;  and  on  his  head  a  wreath  of  clouds. 

His  creature  a  giant  or  silvan. 
Water,  a  young  woman  in  a  sea-greeen  robe,  wrought  with  waves;  her  hair 

a  sea-green,  and  on  her  head  a  wreath  of  sedge  bound  about  with  waves. 

Her  creature  a  syren. 
Earth,  a  young  woman  of  a:  sad  countenance,  in  a  grass-green  robe,  wrought 

with  sundry  fruits  and  flowers ;  her  hair  black,  and  on  her  head  a  chaplet 

of  flowers.     Her  creature  a  pigmy. 
Love,  a  Cupid  in  a  flame-coloured  habit;  bow  and  quiver,  a  crown  of  flaming 

hearts,  &c, 
Physander,  a  perfect  grown  man,  in  a  long  white  robe,  and  on  his  head  a 

garland  of  white  lilies  and  roses  mixed.   His  name  diro  rrjs  fvcreos  koX  tS  dvipot. 


134  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

Choler,  a  fencer;  his  clothes  red. 

Blood,  a  dancer,  in  a  watchet-coloured  suit. 

Phlegm,  a  physician,  an  old  man  ;  his  doublet  white  and  black;  tnmk  hose. 

Melancholy,  a  musician;  his  complexion,  hair,  and  clothes  black;  a  lute  in 
his  hand.     He  is  likewise  an  amorist. 

Bellanima,  a  lovely  woman,  in  a  long  white  robe;  on  her  head  a  wreath  of 
white  flowers.     She  signifies  the  soul. 

Bonus  Genius,  an  angel,  in  a  like  white  robe;  wings  and  wreath  white. 

Malus  Genius,  a  devil,  in  a  black  robe;  hair,  wreath,  and  wings  black. 

The  Five  Senses — Seeing,  a  chambermaid;  Hearing,  the  usher  of  the  hall ; 
Smelling,  a  huntsman  or  gardener;  Tasting,  a  cook;  Touching,  a  gentle- 
man usher. 

Sensuality,  a  wanton  woman,  richly  habited,  but  lasciviously  dressed,  &c. 

Temperance,  a  lovely  woman,  of  a  modest  countenance;  her  garments  plain, 
but  decent,  &c. 

A  Philosopher,      >i 

1  PbuThman,        [  ^"  P'^^P^'^^^  ^'■^'''^' 

A  Shepherd,  J 

Three  Furies  as  they  are  commonly  fancied. 

Fear,  the  crier  of  the  court,  with  a  tipstaff. 

Conscience,  the  Jivdge  of  the  court. 

Hope  and  Despair,  an  advocate  and  a  lawyer. 

The  other  three  Virtues,  as  they  are  frequently  expressed  by  painters. 

The  Heroes,  in  bright  antique  habits,  &:c. 

The  front  of  a  workmanship  proper  to  the  fancy  of  the  rest,  adorned  with  brass 
figures  of  angels  and  devils,  with  several  inscriptions ;  the  title  is  an  escutcheon, 
supported  by  an  angel  and  a  devil.  Within  the  arch  a  continuing  perspec- 
tive of  ruins,  which  is  drawn  still  before  the  other  scenes,  whilst  they  are 
varied. 

THE   INSCRIPTIONS. 

Hinc  gloria.  Hinc  poena. 

Appetitus  boni.  Appetitus  mali." 

Antony  Brewer's  '  Lingua'  (1607)  is  of  the  same  cast.  It  is 
much  longer  as  well  as  older  than  '  Microcosmus.'  It  is  also  an 
allegory  celebrating  the  contention  of  the  Five  Senses  for  the 
crown  of  superiority,  and  the  pretensions  of  Lingua,  or  the 
Tongue,  to  be  admitted  as  a  sixth  sense.  It  is  full  of  child's 
play,  and  old  wives'  tales ;  but  is  not  unadorned  with  passages 
displaying  strong  good  sense,  and  powers  of  fantastic  description. 

Mr.  Lamb  has  quoted  two  passages  from  it — the  admirable 
enumeration  of  the  characteristics  of  different  languages,  *  The 
Chaldee  wise,  the  Arabian  physical,'  &c. ;  and  the  striking  de# 


ON  SINGLE  PLAYS,  POEMS,  ETC.  135 

scription  of  the  ornaments  and  uses  of  tragedy  and  comedy.  The 
dialogue  between  Memory,  Common  Sense,  and  Phantastes,  is 
curious  and  worth  considering  : 

"  Comvion  Sense.    Why,  good  father,  why  are  you  so  late  now-a-daysl 

Memory.  Thus  'tis;  the  most  customers  1  remember  myself  to  have,  are, 
as  your  lordship  knows,  scholars,  and  now-a-days  the  most  of  them  are  become 
critics,  bringing  me  home  such  paltry  things  to  lay  up  for  them,  that  I  can 
hardly  find  them  again. 

Phantastes.  Jupiter,  Jupiter,  I  had  thought  these  flies  had  bit  none  but  my- 
self; do  critics  tickle  you,  i'  faith  1 

Mem.  Very  familiarly ;  for  they  must  know  of  me,  forsooth,  how  every  idle 
word  is  written  in  all  the  musty  moth-eaten  manuscripts,  iiept  in  all  the  old 
libraries  in  every  city,  betwixt  England  and  Peru. 

Common  Sense.  Indeed  I  have  noted  these  times  to  affect  antiquities  more 
than  is  requisite. 

Mem.  I  remember  in  the  age  of  Assaracus  and  Ninus,  and  about  the  wars 
of  Thebes,  and  the  siege  of  Troy,  there  were  few  things  committed  to  my 
charge,  but  those  that  were  well  worthy  the  preserving;  but  now  every  trifle 
must  be  wrapp'd  up  in  the  volume  of  eternity.  A  rich  pudding- wife,  or  a 
cobbler,  cannot  die  but  I  must  immortalize  his  name  with  an  epitaph  ;  a  dog 
cannot  water  in  a  nobleman's  shoe,  but  it  must  be  sprinkled  into  the  chronicles ; 
so  that  I  never  could  remember  my  treasure  more  full,  and  never  emptier  of 
honourable  and  true  heroical  actions." 

And  again,  Mendacio  put  in  his  claim  with  great  success  to 
many  works  of  uncommon  merit : 

"  Appe.  Thou  boy !  how  is  this  possible  1  Thou  art  but  a  child,  and  there 
were  sects  of  philosophy  before  thou  wert  born. 

Men.  Appetitus,  thou  mistakest  me ;  I  tell  thee,  three  thousand  years  ago 
was  Mendacio  born  in  Greece,  nursed  in  Crete,  and  ever  since  honoured 
every  where:  Til  be  sworn  I  held  old  Homer's  pen  when  he  writ  his  Iliads 
and  his  Odysseys. 

Appe.    Thou  hadst  need,  for  I  hear  say  he  was  blind. 

Men.  I  helped  Herodotus  to  pen  some  part  of  his  Muses ;  lent  Pliny  ink 
to  write  his  history;  rounded  Rabelais  in  the  ear  when  he  historified  Panta- 
gruel ;  as  for  Lucian,  I  was  his  genius.  O,  those  two  books,  *  De  Vera  Histo- 
ria,'  however  they  go  under  his  name,  I'll  be  sworn  I  writ  them  every  tittle. 

Appe.  Sure  as  I  am  hungry,  thou'lt  have  it  for  lying.  But  hast  thou  rustd 
this  latter  time  for  want  of  exercise  1 

Men.  Nothing  less.  I  must  confess  I  would  fain  have  jogged  Stow  and 
great  Hollingshed  on  their  elbows,  when  they  were  about  their  Chronicles; 
and,  as  I  remember,  Sir  John  Mandevill's  Travels,  and  a  great  part  of  the 
'  Decades,"  were  of  my  doing ;  but  for  the  '  Mirror  of  Knighthood,'  •  Bevis  of 
Southampton,'  '  Palmerin  of  England,'  '  Amadis  of  Gaul/  '  Huon  de  Bor- 


136  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

deaux,'  '  Sir  Guy  of  Warwick,'  'Martin  Marprelate,'  'Robin  Hood,'  'Ga- 
raganlua,'  '  Geriiion,'  and  a  thousand  such  exquisite  monuments  as  these,  no 
doubt  but  they  breathe  in  my  breath  up  and  down." 

'  The  Merry  Devil  of  Edmonton,'  which  has  been  sometimes 
attributed  to  Shakspeare,  is  assuredly  not  unworthy  of  him.  It 
is  more  likely,  however,  both  from  the  style  and  subject  matter, 
to  have  been  Heywood's  than  any  other  person's.  It  is  perhaps 
the  first  example  of  sentimental  comedy  we  have — romantic, 
sweet,  tender,  it  expresses  the  feelings  of  honour,  love,  and  friend- 
ship in  their  utmost  delicacy,  enthusiasm,  and  purity.  The 
names  alone,  Raymond  Mounchersey,  Frank  Jerningham,  Clare, 
Millisent,  "  sound  silver  sweet,  like  lovers'  tongues  by  night." 
It  sets  out  with  a  sort  of  story  of  Doctor  Faustus,  but  this  is 
dropt  as  jarring  on  the  tender  chords  of  the  rest  of  the  piece. 
The  wit  of  '  The  Merry  Devil  of  Edmonton'  is  as  genuine  as 
the  poetry.  Mine  Host  of  the  George  is  as  good  a  fellow  as  Boni- 
face, and  the  deer-stealing  scenes  in  the  forest  between  him.  Sir 
John  the  curate,  Smug  the  smith,  and  Banks  the  miller,  are 
"  very  honest  knaveries,"  as  Sir  Hugh  Evans  has  it.  The  air 
is  delicate,  and  the  deer,  shot  by  their  cross-bows,  fall  without  a 
groan  !     Frank  Jerningham  says  to  Clare, 

"  The  way  lies  right :  hark,  the  clock  strikes  at  Enfield :  what's  the  hour  1 

Young  Clare.     Ten,  the  bell  says. 

Jern.     It  was  but  eight  when  we  set  out  from  Cheston  :  Sir  John  and  hi? 
sexton  are  at  their  ale  to-night,  the  clock  runs  at  random. 

Y.  Clare.  Nay,  as  sure  as  thou  livest,  the  villanous  vicar  is  abroad  in  the 
chase.    The  priest  steals  more  venison  tlian  half  the  country, 

Jem.    Millisent,  how  dost  thou  1 

Mil.    Sir,  very  well. 
I  would  to  God  we  were  at  Brian's  lodge." 

A  volume  might  be  written  to  prove  this  last  answer  Shak- 
speare's,  in  which  the  tongue  says  one  thing  in  one  line,  and  the 
heart  contradicts  it  in  the  next ;  but  there  were  other  writers 
living  in  the  time  of  Shakspeare,  who  knew  these  subtle  wind- 
ings of  the  passions  besides  him, — though  none  so  well  as  he  ! 

'  The  Pinner  of  Wakefield,  or  George  a  Green,'  is  a  pleasant 
interlude,  of  an  early  date,  and  tlic  author  unknown,  in  which 
kings  and  cobblers,  outlaws  and  Maid  Marians,  are  "  hail-fellow 


ON  SINGLE  PLAYS,  POEMS,  ETC.  137 

well  met,"  and  in  which  the  features  of  the  antique  world  are 
made  smiling  and  amiable  enough.  Jenkin,  George  a  Green's 
servant,  is  a  notorious  wag.  Here  is  one  of  his  pretended 
pranks  : 


"  Jenkin.     This  fellow  comes  to  me, 
And  takes  me  by  the  bosom  :  you  slave, 
Said  he,  hold  my  horse,  and  look 
He  takes  no  cold  in  his  feet. 
No,  marry  shall  he,  sir,  quoth  I. 
I'll  lay  my  cloak  underneath  him, 
I  took  my  cloak,  spread  it  all  along, 
And  his  horse  on  the  midst  of  it, 

George.     Thou  clown,  did'st  thou  set  his  horse  upon  thy  cloak  1 

Jenk.    Aye,  but  mark  how  I  served  him. 
Madge  and  he  was  no  sooner  gone  down  into  the  ditch 
But  I  plucked  out  my  knife,  cut  four  holes  in  my  cloak,  and  made  his  horse 
stand  on  the  bare  ground." 

The  first  part  of  '  Jeronymo'  is  an  indifferent  piece  of  work, 
and  4he  second,  or  '  The  Spanish  Tragedy,'  by  Kyd,  is  like  unto 
it,  except  the  interpolations  idly  said  to  have  been  added  by  Ben 
Jonson,  relating  to  Jeronymo's  phrensy,  "  which  have  all  the 
melancholy  madness  of  poetry,  if  not  the  inspiration." 

10 


138  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 


LECTURE  VI. 

On  Miscellaneous  Poems ;  F.  Beaumont,  P.  Fletcher,  Drayton,  Daniel,  etc. ; 
Sir  P.  Sidney's  '  Arcadia,'  and  other  works. 

I  SHALL,  in  the  present  Lecture,  attempt  to  give  some  idea  of  the 
lighter  productions  of  the  Muse  in  the  period  before  us,  in  order 
to  show  that  grace  and  elegance  are  not  confined  entirely  to 
later  times,  and  shall  conclude  with  some  remarks  on  Sir  Philip 
Sidney's  '  Arcadia.' 

I  have  already  made  mention  of  the  lyrical  pieces  of  Beau- 
mont  and  Fletcher.  It  appears  from  his  poems,  that  many  of 
these  were  composed  by  Francis  Beaumont,  particularly  the  very 
beautiful  ones  in  the  tragedy  of  '  The  False  One,'  the  '  Praise 
of  Love'  in  that  of  '  Valentinian,'  and  anoth^  in  '  The  Nice 
Valour,  or  Passionate  Madman,'  an  "  Address  to  Melancholy," 
which  is  the  perfection  of  this  kind  of  writing. 

"  Hence,  all  you  vain  delights , 

As  short  as  are  the  nights 

Wherein  you  spend  your  folly 

There's  nought  in  tliis  hfe  sv\-eet, 

If  man  were  wise  to  see't, 

But  only  melancholy, 

Oh,  sweetest  melancholy, 

Welcome  folded  arms  and  fixed  eyes,  , 

A  sight  that  piercing  mortifies; 

A  look  that's  fasten'd  to  the  ground, 

A  tongue  chain'd  up  without  a  sound ; 

Fountain  heads,  and  pathless  groves, 

Places  which  pale  passion  loves : 

Moon-light  walks,  where  all  the  fowls 

Are  warmly  hous'd,  save  bats  and  owls ; 

A  midnight  bell,  a  passing  groan, 

These  are  the  sounds  we  feed  upon: 

Then  stretch  our  bones  in  a  siill,  gloomy  valley; 

Nothing  so  dainty  sweet  as  lovely  melancholy." 


ON  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS,  ETC.  139 

It  has  been  supposed  (and  not  without  every  appearance  of 
good  reason)  that  this  pensive  strain,  "  most  musical,  most  me- 
lancholy," gave  the  first  suggestion  of  the  spirited  introduction 
to  Milton's  'II  Penseroso.' 

"  Hence,  vain  deluding  joys, 

The  brood  of  folly  without  father  bred! 

But  hail,  thou  Goddess,  sage  and  holy, 

Hail,  divinest  melancholy. 

Whose  saintly  visage  is  too  bright 

To  hit  the  sense  of  human  sight,"  &c. 

The  same  writer  thus  moralises  on  the  life  of  man,  in  a  set  of 
similes,  as  apposite  as  they  are  light  and  elegant : 

"  Like  to  the  falling  of  a  star, 
Or  as  the  flights  of  eagles  are. 
Or  like  the  fresh  spring's  gaudy  hue, 
Or  silver  drops  of  morning  dew. 
Or  like  a  wind  that  chafes  the  flood, 
Or  bubbles  which  on  water  stood  : 
E'en  such  is  man,  whose  borrow'd  light 
Is  straight  call'd  in  and  paid  to-night: — 
The  wind  blows  out,  the  bubble  dies : 
The  spring  entomb'd  in  autumn  lies ; 
The  dew's  dried  up,  the  star  is  shot. 
The  flight  is  past,  and  man  forgot." 

"  The  silver  foam  which  the  wind  severs  from  the  parted 
wave"  is  not  more  light  or  sparkling  than  this  :  the  dove's  downy 
pinion  is  not  softer  and  smoother  than  the  verse.  We  are  too 
ready  to  conceive  of  the  poetry  of  that  day,  as  altogether  old- 
fashioned,  meagre,  squalid,  deformed,  withered  and  wild  in  its 
attire,  or  as  a  sort  of  uncouth  monster,  like  "  grim-visaged,  com- 
fortless despair,"  mounted  on  a  lumbering,  unmanageable  Pe- 
gasus, dragon-winged  and  leaden-hoofed ;  but  it  as  often  wore 
a  sylph-like  form  with  Attic  vest,  with  fairy  feet,  and  the  but- 
terfly's gaudy  wings.  The  bees  were  said  to  have  come,  and 
built  their  hive  in  the  mouth  of  Plato  when  a  child  ;  and  the 
fable  might  be  transferred  to  the  sweeter  accents  of  Beaumont 
and  Fletcher !  Beaumont  died  at  the  age  of  five-and-twenty. 
One  of  these  writers  makes  Bellario  the  Page  say  to  Philaster, 
who  threatens  to  take  his  life — 


140  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

"  'Tis  not  a  life; 
'Tis  but  a  piece  of  childhood  thrown  away." 

But  here  was  youth,  genius,  aspiring  hope,  growing  reputation, 
cut  off  like  a  flower  in  its  summer-pride,  or  like  "  the  lily  on  its 
stalk  green,"  which  makes  us  repine  at  fortune  and  almost  at 
nature,  that  seems  to  set  so  little  store  by  their  greatest  favour- 
ites. The  life  of  poets  is,  or  ought  to  be  (judging  of  it  from  the 
light  it  lends  to  ours,)  a  golden  dream,  full  of  brightness  and 
sweetness,  "  lapt  in  Elysium  ;"  and  it  gives  one  a  reluctant  pang 
to  see  the  splendid  vision,  by  which  they  are  attended  in  their 
path  of  glory,  fade  like  a  vapour,  and  their  sacred  heads  laid 
low  in  ashes,  before  the  sand  of  common  mortals  has  run  out. 
Fletcher  too  was  prematurely  cut  off  by  the  plague.  Raphael 
died  at  four-and-thirty,  and  Correggio  at  forty.  Who  can  help 
wishing  that  they  had  lived  to  the  age  of  Michael  Angelo  and 
Titian  ?  Shakspeare  might  have  lived  another  half  century,  en- 
joying fame  and  repose,  "  now  that  his  task  was  smoothly  done," 
listening  to  the  music  of  his  name,  and  better  still,  of  his  own 
thoughts,  without  minding  Rymer's  abuse  of  "  the  tragedies  of 
the  last  age."  His  native  stream  of  Avon  would  then  have 
flowed  with  softer  murmurs  to  the  ear,  and  his  pleasant  birth- 
place, Stratford,  would  in  that  case  have  worn  even  a  more  glad- 
some smile  than  it  does,  to  the  eye  of  fancy ! — Poets,  however, 
have  a  sort  of  privileged  after-life,  which  does  not  fall  to  the 
common  lot ;  the  rich  and  mighty  are  nothing  but  while  they  are 
living  ;  their  power  ceases  with  them  :  but  "  the  sons  of  me- 
mory, the  great  heirs  of  fame,"  leave  the  best  part  of  what  was 
theirs,  their  thoughts,  their  verse,  what  they  most  delighted  and 
prided  themselves  in,  behind  them — imperishable,  incorruptible, 
immortal ! — Sir  John  Beaumont  (the  brother  of  our  dramatist), 
whose  loyal  and  religious  effusions  are  not  worth  much,  very 
feelingly  laments  his  brother's  untimely  death  in  an  epitaph  upon 
him  : 

"  Thou  shouldst  have  followed  me,  but  Death  (to  blame) 
Miscounted  years,  and  measured  age  by  fame ; 
So  dearly  hast  thou  bouj^ht  thy  precious  lines, 
Their  praise  grew  swiftly  j  so  thy  life  declines, 


ON  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS,  ETC.  Ul 

Thy  Muse,  the  hearer's  dueen,  the  readers  Love, 

All  ears,  all  hearts  (but  Death's)  could  please  and  move." 

Beaumont's  verses  addressed  to  Ben  Jonson  at  the  Mermaid 
are  a  pleasing  record  of  their  friendship,  and  of  the  way  in  which 
they  "  fleeted  the  time  carelessly"  as  well  as  studiously  "in  the 
golden  age"  of  our  poetry  : 

[lAnes  sent  from  the  country  with  two  unfinished  Comedies,  which  deferred  their 
merry  meetings  at  the  Mermaid.] 

"  The  sun  which  doth  the  greatest  comfort  bring 

To  absent  friends,  because  the  selfsame  thing 

They  know  they  see,  however  absent,  is 

Here  our  best  hay-maker,  (forgive  me  this, 

It  is  our  country  style)  in  this  warm  shine 

I  lie  and  dream  of  your  full  Mermaid  wine  : 

Oh,  we  have  water  mixt  with  claret  lees, 

Drink  apt  to  bring  in  drier  heresies 

Than  here,  good  only  for  the  sonnet  s  strain, 

With  fustian  metaphors  to  stuff  the  brain : 

Think  with  one  draught  a  man's  invention  fades, 

Two  cups  had  quite  spoil'd  Homer's  Iliads, 

'Tis  liquor  that  will  find  out  Sutcliffe's  wit. 

Like  where  he  will,  and  make  him  write  worse  yet : 

Fill'd  with  such  moisture,  in  most  grievous  qualms* 

Did  Robert  Wisdom  write  his  singing  psalms : 

And  so  must  I  do  this  :  and  yet  I  think 

It  is  a  potion  sent  us  down  to  drink 

By  specicJ  providence,  keep  us  from  fights, 

Make  us  not  laugh  when  we  malce  legs  to  knights; 

'Tis  this  that  keeps  our  minds  fit  for  our  states, 

A  medicine  to  obey  our  magistrates. 

******** 

Methinks  the  little  wit  I  had  is  lost 

Since  I  saw  you,  for  wit  is  like  a  rest 

Held  up  at  tennis,  which  men  do  the  best 

With  the  best  gamesters.     What  things  have  we  seen 

Done  at  the  Mermaid  !     Hard  words  that  have  been 

So  nimble,  and  so  full  of  subtile  flame, 

As  if  that  every  one  from  whence  they  came 

Had  meant  to  put  his  whole  wit  in  a  jest, 

And  had  resolved  to  live  a  fool  the  rest 

*  So  in  Rochester's"  epigram  : — 

"  Sternhold  and  Hopkins  had  great  qualm% 
WhCQ  they  translated  David's  Psalms." 


142  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

Of  his  dull  life  ;  then  when  there  hath  been  thrown 

Wit  able  enough  to  justify  the  town 

For  three  days  past,  wit  that  might  warrant  be 

For  the  whole  city  to  talk  foolishly, 

Till  that  were  cancell'd;  and  when  that  was  gone, 

We  left  an  air  behind  us,  which  alone 

Was  able  to  make  the  two  next  companies 

Right  witty,  though  but  downright  fools  more  wise." 

I  shall  not  in  this  place  repeat  Marlowe's  celebrated  song, 
*  Come  live  with  me  and  be  my  love,'  nor  Sir  Walter  Raleigh's 
no  less  celebrated  answer  to  it  (they  may  both  be  found  in  Wal- 
ton's *  Complete  Angler,'  accompanied  with  scenery  and  remarks 
worthy  of  them)  ;  but  I  may  quote,  as  a  specimen  of  the  high 
and  romantic  tone  in  which  the  poets  of  this  age  thought  and 
spoke  of  each  other,  the  '  Vision  upon  the  Conceipt  of  the  Faery 
Queen,'  understood  to  be  by  Sir  Walter  Releigh : 
• 

"  Methought  I  saw  the  grave  where  Laura  lay, 

Within  that  temple,  where  the  vestal  flame 

Was  wont  to  burn,  and  passing  by  that  way 

To  see  that  buried  dust  of  living  fame, 

Whose  tomb  fair  Love,  and  fairer  Virtue  kept. 

All  suddenly  I  saw  the  Faery  Q.ueen  : 

At  whose  approach  the  soul  of  Petrarch  wept; 

And  from  thenceforth  those  Graces  were  not  seen, 

For  they  this  Glueen  attended,  in  whose  stead 

Oblivion  laid  him  down  on  Laura's  hearse. 

Hereat  the  hardest  stones  were  seen  to  bleed, 

And  groans  of  buried  ghosts  the  heavens  did  pierce, 

Where  Homer's  spright  did  tremble  all  for  grief, 

And  curst  th'  access  of  that  celestial  thief." 

A  higher  strain  of  compliment  cannot  well  he  conceived  than 
this,  which  raises  your  idea  even  of  that  which  it  disparages  in 
the  comparison,  and  makes  you  feel  that  nothing  could  have  torn 
the  writer  from  his  idolatrous  enthusiasm  for  Petrarch  and  his 
Laura's  tomb,  but  Spenser's  magic  verses  and  diviner  *  Faery 
Queen' — the  one  lifted  above  mortality,  the  other  brought  from 
the  skies ! 

The  name  of  Drummond  of  Ilawthornden  is  in  a  manner  en- 
twined in  cypher  with  that  of  Ben  Jonson.  He  has  not  done 
himself  or  Jonson  any  credit  by  his  account  of  their  con  versa- 


ON  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS,  ETC.  143 

tion  ;  but  his  sonnets  are  in  the  highest  degree  elegant,  harmo- 
nious, and  striking.  It  appears  to  me  that  they  are  more  in  the 
manner  of  Petrarch  than  any  others  that  we  have,  with  a  certain' 
intenseness  in  the  sentiment,  an  occasional  glitter  of  thought,  and 
uniform  terseness  of  expression.  The  reader  may  judge  for  him- 
self from  a  few  examples. 

'•  I  know  that  all  beneath  the  moon  decays, 
And  what  by  mortals  in  this  world  is  wrought 
In  time's  great  periods  shall  return  to  nought; 
That  fairest  states  have  fatal  nights  and  days. 
I  know  that  all  the  Muse's  heavenly  lays. 
With  toil  of  spright  which  are  so  dearly  bought, 
As  idle  sounds,  of  few  or  none  are  sought ; 
That  there  is  nothing  lighter  than  vain  praise. 
I  know  frail  beauty's  like  the  purple  flow'r, 
To  which  one  morn  oft  birth  and  death  aftbrds ; 
That  love  a  jarring  is  of  mind's  accords, 
Where  sense  and  will  bring  under  reason's  pow'r. 
Know  what  I  list,  this  all  cannot  me  move. 
But  that,  alas  !  I  both  must  write  and  love." 

Another — 

"  Fair  moon,  who  with  thy  cold  and  silver  shine 
Mak'st  sweet  the  horror  of  the  dreadful  night, 
Delighting  the  weak  eye  with  smiles  divine, 
Which  Phoebus  dazzles  with  his  too  much  light; 
Bright  queen  of  the  first  Heav'n,  if  in  thy  shrine 
By  turning  oft,  and  Heav'n's  eternal  might. 
Thou  hast  not  yet  that  once  sweet  fire  of  thine, 
Endymion,  forgot,  and  lovers'  plight: 
If  cause  like  thine  may  pity  breed  in  thee, 
And  pity  somewhat  else  to  it  obtain. 
Since  thou  hast  power  of  dreams  as  well  as  he 
That  holds  the  golden  rod  and  mortal  chain  ; 
Now  while  she  sleeps,*  in  doleful  guise  her  show 
These  tears,  and  the  black  map  of  all  my  woe." 

This  is  the  eleventh  sonnet :  the  twelfth  is  full  of  vile  and 
forced  conceits,  without  any  sentiment  at  all ;  such  as  calling 
the  sun  "  the  goldsmith  of  the  stars,"  "  the  enameller  of  the 
moon,"  and  "  the  Apelles  of  the  flowers."    This  is  as  bad  as 

*  His  mistress. 


144  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABET 

Cowley  or  Sir  Philip  Sidney.     Here  is  one  that  is  worth  a  million 

of  such  quaint  devices : 

"  To  the  Nightingale. 

Dear  chorister,  who  from  these  shadows  sends*, 

Ere  that  the  blushing  morn  dare  show  her  light, 

Such  sad  lamenting  strains,  that  night  attends 

(Become  all  eart)  stars  stay  to  hear  thy  plight. 

If  one  whose  grief  even  reach  of  thought  transcends, 

Who  ne'er  (not  in  a  dream)  did  taste  delight, 

May  thee  importune  who  like  case  pretends, 

And  seem'st  to  joy  in  woe,  in  woe's  despite: 

Tell  me  (so  may  thou  milder  fortune  try. 

And  long,  long  sing !)  for  what  thou  thus  complains,* 

Since  winter's  gone,  and  sun  in  dappled  sky 

Enamour'd  smiles  on  woods  and  flow'ry  plains  1 

The  bird,  as  if  my  questions  did  her  move. 

With  trembling  wings  sigh'd  forth,  '  I  love,  I  love.'  " 

Or  if  a  mixture  of  the  Delia  Cruscan  style  be  allowed  to  en- 
shrine the  true  spirit  of  love  and  poetry,  we  have  it  in  the  fol- 
lowinsr  address  to  the  river  Forth,  on  which  his  mistress  had  em- 
barked  : 

"  Slide  soft,  fair  Forth,  and  make  a  crystal  plain, 

Cut  your  white  locks,  and  on  your  foamy  face 

Let  not  a  wrinkle  be,  when  you  embrace 

The  boat  that  earth's  perfection  doth  contain. 

Winds  wonder,  and  through  wondering  hold  your  peace, 

Or  if  that  you  your  hearts  cannot  restrain 

From  sending  siglis,  feeling  a  lovers  case, 

Sigh,  and  in  her  fair  hair  yourselves  enchain. 

Or  take  these  sighs,  which  absence  makes  arise 

From  my  oppressed  breast,  and  fill  the  sails. 

Or  some  sweet  breath  new  brought  from  Paradise. 

The  floods  do  smile,  love  o'er  the  winds  prevails, 

And  yet  huge  waves  arise ;  the  cause  is  this. 

The  ocean  strives  with  Forth  the  boat  to  kiss." 

This  to  the  English  reader  will  express  the  very  soul  of  Pe- 
trarch, the  molten  breath  of  sentiment  converted  into  the  glassy 
essence  of  a  set  of  glittering  but  still  graceful  conceits. 

"  The  fly  that  sips  treacle  is  lost  in  the  sweets,"  and  the  critic 

♦  Scotch  for  send'st ;  for  complain'st,  &c. 
t  "  1  was  all  car  j"  see  Milton's  '  Comus.' 


ON  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS,  ETC.  145 

that  tastes  poetry  "  ruin  meets."  His  feet  are  clogged  with  its 
honey,  and  his  eyes  blinded  with  its  beauties ;  and  he  forgets  his 
proper  vocation,  which  is  to  buzz  and  sting.  I  am  afraid  of 
losing  my  way  in  Drummond's  "sugar'd  sonnetting :"  and  have 
determined  more  than  once  to  break  off  abruptly  ;  but  another 
and  another  tempts  the  rash  hand  and, curious  eye,  which  I 
am  loth  not  to  give,  and  I  give  it  accordingly :  for  if  I  did  not 
write  these  Lectures  to  please  myself,  I  am  at  least  sure  I  should 
please  nobody  else.  In  fact,  I  conceive  that  what  I  have  under- 
taken to  do  in  this  and  former  cases,  is  merely  to  read  over  a  set 
of  authors  with  the  audience,  as  I  would  do  with  a  friend,  to 
point  out  a  favourite  passage,  to  explain  an  objection ;  or  if  a  re- 
mark or  a  theory  occurs,  to  state  it  in  illustration  of  the  subject, 
but  neither  to  tire  him  nor  puzzle  myself  with  pedantic  rules  and 
pragmatical  formulas  of  criticism  that  can  do  no  good  to  any- 
body. I  do  not  come  to  the  task  with  a  pair  of  compasses  or  a 
ruler  in  my  pocket,  to  see  whether  a  poem  is  round  or  square,  or 
to  measure  its  mechanical  dimensions,  like  a  metre  and  alnager 
of  poetry  :  it  is  not  in  my  bond  to  look  after  exciseable  articles  or 
contraband  wares,  or  to  exact  severe  penalties  and  forfeitures  for 
trifling  oversights,  or  to  give  formal  notice  of  violent  breaches  of 
the  three  unities,  of  geography  and  chronology  ;  or  to  distribute 
printed  stamps  and  poetical  licences  (with  blanks  to  be  filled  up) 
on  Mount  Parnassus.  I  do  not  come  armed  from  top  to  toe  with 
colons  and  semi-colons,  with  glossaries  and  indexes,  to  adjust  the 
spelling  or  reform  the  metre,  or  to  prove  by  everlasting  contra- 
diction and  querulous  impatience,  that  former  commentators  did 
not  know  the  meaning  of  their  author,  any  more  than  I  do,  who 
am  angry  at  them,  only  because  I  am  out  of  humour  with  myself 
— as  if  the  genius  of  poetry  lay  buried  under  the  rubbish  of  the 
press  ;  and  the  critic  was  the  dwarf-enchanter  who  was  to  re- 
lease its  airy  form  from  being  stuck  through  with  blundering 
points  and  misplaced  commas ;  or  to  prevent  its  vital  powers 
from  being  worm-eaten  and  consumed,  letter  by  letter,  in  musty 
manuscripts  and  black-letter  print.  I  do  not  think  that  is  the 
way  to  learn  "  the  gentle  craft"  of  poesy,  or  to  teach  it  to 
others  : — to  irtlbibe  or  to  communicate  its  spirit ;  which,  if  ^t  does 
not  disentangle  itself  and  soar  above  the  obscure  and  trivial  re- 


146  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH, 

searches  of  antiquarianism,  is  no  longer  itself,  "  a  phoenix  gazed 
by  all."  At  least,  so  it  appeared  to  me  ;  it  is  for  others  to  judge 
whether  I  was  right  or  wrone.  In  a  word,  I  have  endeavoured 
to  feel  what  was  good,  and  to  "  give  a  reason  for  the  faith  that 
was  in  me,"  when  necessary,  and  when  in  my  power.  This  is 
what  I  have  done,  and  what  I  must  continue  to  do. 

To  return  to  Drummond. — I  cannot  but  think  that  his  sonnets 
come  as  near  as  almost  any  others  to  the  perfection  of  this  kind 
of  writing,  which  should  embody  a  sentiment,  and  every  shade  of 
a  sentiment,  as  it  varies  with  time  and  place  and  humour,  with  the 
•extravagance  or  lightness  of  a  momentary  impression,  and  should, 
when  lengthened  out  into  a  series,  form  a  history  of  the  wayward 
moods  of  the  poet's  mind,  the  turns  of  his  fate  \  and  imprint  the 
smile  or  frown  of  his  mistress  in  indelible  characters  on  the  scat- 
tered leaves.  I  will  give  the  two  following,  and  have  done  with 
this  author : 

"  In  vain  I  haunt  the  cold  and  silver  springs, 

To  quench  the  fever  burning  in  my  veins  : 

In  vain  (love's  pilgrim)  mountains,  dales,  and  plains 

1  over-run  ;  vain  help  long  absence  brings. 

In  vain,  my  friends,  your  counsel  me  constrains 

To  fly,  and  place  my  thoughts  on  other  things. 

Ah,  like  the  bird  that  fired  hath  her  wings, 

The  more  I  move  the  greater  are  my  pains. 

Desire,  alas  !  desire  a  Zeuxis  new, 

From  th'  orient  borrowing  gold,  from  western  skies 

Heavenly  cinnabar,  sets  before  my  eyes 

In  every  place  her  hair,  sweet  look  and  hue  ; 

That  fly,  run,  rest  I,  all  doth  prove  but  vain  ; 

My  life  lies  in  those  eyes  which  have  me  slain." 

The  other  is  a  direct  imitation  of  Petrarch's  description  of  the 
bower  where  he  first  saw  Laura : 

"  Alexis,  here  she  stay'd  among  these  pines, 

Sweet  hermitresS;  she  did  alone  repair  : 

Here  did  she  spread  the  treasure  of  her  hair, 

More  rich  than  that  brought  from  the  Colchian  mines; 

Here  sat  she  by  these  musked  eglantmes  ; 

The  happy  flowers  seem  yet  the  print  to  bear: 

Her  voice  did  sweeten  here  thy  su^ar'd  lines,      % 

To  which  winds,  trees,  beasts,  birds,  did  lend  an  ear. 

She  here  me  first  perceiv'd,  and  here  a  morn 

Of  bright  carnations  did  o'erspread  her  face ; 


ON  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS,  ETC.  147 

Here  did  she  sigh,  here  first  my  hopes  were  bom, 
Here  first  I  got  a  pledge  of  promised  grace  ; 
But  ah  !  what  serves  to  have  been  made  happy  so, 
Sith  past  pleasures  double  but  new  woe !" 

I  should,  on  the  whole,  prefer  Drummond's  sonnets  to  Spen- 
ser's ;  and  they  leave  Sydney's,  picking  their  way  through  ver- 
bal intricacies  and  "  thorny  queaches,"*  at  an  immeasurable  dis- 
tance behind.  Drummond's  other  poems  have  great  though  not 
equal  merit ;  and  he  may  be  fairly  set  down  as  one  of  our  old 
English  classics. 

Ben  Jonson's  detached  poetry  I  like  much,  as  indeed  I  do  all 
about  him,  except  when  he  degraded  himself  by  "  the  laborious 
foolery"  of  some  of  his  farcical  characters,  which  he  could  not 
deal  with  sportively,  and  only  made  stupid  and  pedantic!  I  have 
been  blamed  for  what  I  have  said,  more  than  once,  in  disparage- 
ment of  Ben  Jonson's  comic  humour  ;  but  I  think  he  was  himself 
aware  of  his  infirmity,  and  has  (not  improbably)  alluded  to  it  in 
the  following  speech  of  Crites  in  '  Cynthia's  Revels  :' 

*'  Oh,  how  despised  and  base  a  thing  is  man. 

If  he  not  strive  to  erect  his  groveling  thoughts 

Above  the  strain  of  flesh  !    But  how  more  cheap, 

When  even  his  best  and  understanding  part 

(The  crown  and  strength  of  all  his  faculties) 

Floats  like  a  dead-drown'd  body,  on  the  stream 

Of  vulgar  humour,  mix'd  with  common'st  dregs: 

I  suffer  for  their  guilt  now  ;  and  my  soul 

(Like  one  that  looks  on  ill-affected  eyes) 

Is  hurt  with  mere  intention  on  their  follies. 

Why  will  I  view  tliem  then  1  my  sense  might  ask  me : 

Or  is't  a  rarity  or  some  new  object 

That  strains  my  strict  observance  to  this  point: 

But  such  is  the  perverseness  of  our  nature, 

That  if  we  once  but  fancy  levity, 

(How  antic  and  ridiculous  soever 

It  suit  with  us)  yet  will  our  mufHed  thought 

Chuse  rather  not  to  see  it  than  avoid  it,"  &c. 

Ben  Jonson  had  self-knowledge  and  self- reflection  enough  to 
a,pply  this  to  himself.     His  tenaciousness  on  the  score  of  critical 

♦  Chapman's  Hymn  to  Pan. ,.' 


148  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

objections  does  not  prove  that  he  was  not  conscious  of  them  him- 
self, but  the  contrary.     The  greatest  egotists  are  those  whom  it 
is  impossible  to  offend,  because  they  are  wholly  and  incurably 
blind  to  their  own  defects  ;  or  if  they  could  be  made  to  see  them, 
would  instantly  convert  them  into  so  many  beauty-spots  and  o- 
namental  graces.     Ben  Jonson's  fugitive  and  lighter  pi^" 
not  devoid  of  the  characteristic  merits  of  that  class  of  coiii^ 
lion ;  but  still  often  in  the  happiest  of  them,  there   is  a  specific 
gravity  in  the  author's  pen,  that  sinks  him  to  the  bottom  of  his 
subject,  though  buoyed  up  for  a  time  with  art  and  painted  plumes, 
and  produces  a  strange  mixture  of  the  mechanical  and  fanciful, 
of  poetry  and  prose,  in  his  songs  and  odes.     For  instance,  one 
of  his  most  airy  effusions  is  the  '  Triumph  of  his  Mistress:'  yet 
there  are  some  lines  in  it  that  seem  inserted  almost  by  way  of 
burlesque.     It  is,  however,  well  worth  repeating. 

"  See  the  chariot  at  hand  hefe  of  love 

Wherin  my  lady  rideth ! 

Each  that  draws  it  is  a  swan  or  a  dove ; 

And  well  the  car  love  guideth ! 

As  she  goes  all  hearts  do  duty 

Unto  her  beauty: 
And  enamour'd,  do  wish  so  they  might 

But  enjoy  such  a  siglit, 
That  they  still  were  to  run  by  her  side, 
Through  swords,  through  seas,  whither  she  would  ride. 
Do  but  look  on  her  eyes,  they  do  light 

All  that  love's  world  compriseth  ! 
Do  but  look  on  her  hair,  it  is  bright 

As  love's  star  when  it  riseth  ! 
Do  but  mark,  her  forehead's  smoother 

Than  words  that  soothe  her : 
And  from  her  arch'd  brows,  such  a  grace 

Sheds  itself  through  the  face, 
As  alone  their  triumplis  to  the  life 
All  tlie  gain,  all  the  good  of  the  elements'  strife. 

Have  you  seen  but  a  bright  lily  glow, 
Before  rude  hands  have  touch'd  itl 
Ha'  you  mark'd  but  the  fall  of  the  snow 
Befow  the  soil  hath  smutch'd  it  1 
Ha'  you  felt  the  wool  of  beaver? 
Or  swan's  down  ever  1 


ON  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS,  ETC.  149 


Or  have  smelt  o'  the  bud  o'  the  briar  1 

Or  the  nard  in  the  fire? 

Or  have  tasted  the  bag  of  the  bee  '\ 

Oh,  so  white !     Oh,  so  soft !    Oh,  so  sweet  is  she!" 

His  '  Discourse  with  Cupid,'  which  follows,  is  infinitely  deli- 
cate and  piquant,  and  without  one  single  blemish.  It  is  a  perfect 
**  nest  of  spicery." 

.     •'  Noblest  Charis,  you  that  are 
Both  my  fortune  and  my  star ! 
And  do  govern  more  my  blood, 
Than  the  various  moon  the  flood ! 
Hear,  what  late  discourse  of  you, 
Love  and  I  have  had  ;  and  true. 
'Mongst  my  Muses  finding  me, 
Where  he  chanc'd  your  name  to  see 
Set,  and  to  this  softer  strain  ; 
♦  Sure,'  said  he,  '  If  I  have  brain, 
This  here  sung  can  be  no  other. 
By  description,  but  my  mother ! 
So  hath  Homer  prais'd  her  hair ; 
So  Anacreon  drawn  the  air 
Of  her  face,  and  made  to  rise. 
Just  about  her  sparkling  eyes, 
Both  her  brows  bent  like  my  bow. 
By  her  looks  I  do  her  know, 
Which  you  call  my  shafts.    And  see ! 
Such  my  mother's  blushes  be, 
As  the  bath  your  verse  discloses 
In  her  cheeks,  of  milk  and  roses ; 
Such  as  oft  I  wanton  in. 
And,  above  her  even  chin. 
Have  you  plac'd  tlie  bank  of  kisses, 
Where  you  say,  men  gather  blisses, 
Ripen'd  with  a  breath  more  sweet. 
Than  when  flowers  and  west-winds  meet, 
Nay,  her  white  and  polish'd  neck, 
With  the  lace  that  doth  it  deck. 
Is  my  mother's !  hearts  of  slain 
Lovers,  made  into  a  chain ! 
And  between  each  rising  breast 
Lies  the  valley,  call'd  my  nest. 
Where  I  sit  and  proyne  my  wings 
After  flight;  and  put  new  stings 
To  my  shafts !    Her  very  name 


150  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

With  my  mother's  is  the  same.' — 
'  I  confess  all,'  I  replied, 
'And  the  glass  hangs  by  her  side, 
And  the  girdle  'bout  her  waist, 
All  is  Venus  :  save  unchaste. 
But,  alas !  thou  seest  the  least 
Of  her  good,  who  is  the  best 
Of  her  sex ;  but  could'st  thou,  Love, 
Call  to  mind  the  forms  that  strove 
For  the  apple,  and  those  three 
Make  in  one,  the  same  were  she. 
For  this  beauty  yet  doth  hide 
Something  more  than  thou  hast  spied. 
Outward  grace  weak  love  beguiles  : 
She  is  Venus  when  she  smiles, 
But  she's  Juno  when  she  walks, 
And  Minerva  when  she  talks.'  "  ; 

In  one  of  the  songs  in  '  Cynthia's  Revels,'  we  find,  amidst 
some  very  pleasing  imagery,  the  origin  of  a  celebrated  line  in 
modern  poetry — 

"  Drip,  drip,  drip,  drip,  drip,"  &c. 

This  has  not  even  the  merit  of  originality,  which  is  hard  upon  it- 
Ben  Jonson  had  said  two  hundred  years  before, 

"  Oh,  I  could  still 
(Like  melting  snow  upon  some  craggy  hill) 

Drop,  drop,  drop,  drop, 
Since  nature's  pride  is  now  a  wither'd  daffodil." 

His  '  Ode  to  the  Memory  of  Sir  Lucius  Gary  and  Sir  H.  Mor- 
rison' has  been  much  admired,  but  I  cannot  hut  think  it  one  of 
his  most  fantastical  and  perverse  performances. 

I  cannot,  for  instance,  reconcile  myself  to  such  stanzas  as 
these  : 

"  Of  which  we  priests  and  poets  say 
Such  truths  as  we  expect  for  happy  men, 
And  there  he  lives  with  memory ;  aiKl  Ben 

The  Stand. 

Jonson,  who  sung  this  of  him,  ere  he  went 
Himself  to  rest, 


ON  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS,  ETC.  151 

Or  taste  a  part  of  that  full  joy  he  meant 

To  have  exprest, 

In  this  bright  asterism  ; 

Where  it  were  friendship's  schism 

(Were  not  his  Lucius  long  with  us  to  tarry)  ^ 

To  separate  these  twi- 

Lights,  the  Dioscori ; 

And  keep  the  one  half  from  his  Harry. 

But  fate  doth  so  alternate  the  design. 

While  that  in  Heaven,  this  light  on  earth  doth  shine." 

This  seems  as  if  because  he  cannot  without  difficulty  write 
smoothly,  he  becomes  rough  and  crabbed  in  a  spirit  of  defiance, 
like  those  persons  who  cannot  behave  well  in  company,  and  affect 
rudeness  to  show  their  contempt  for  the  opinions  of  others. 

His  '  Epistles'  are  particularly  good,  equally  full  of  strong 
sense  and  sound  feelinjr.  Thev  show  that  he  was  not  without 
friends,  whom  he  esteemed,  and  by  whom  he  was  deservedly  es- 
teemed in  return.  The  controversy  started  about  his  character 
is  an  idle  one,  carried  on  in  the  mere  spirit  of  contradiction,  as 
if  he  were  either  made  up  entirely  of  gall,  or  dipped  in  "  the 
milk  of  human  kindness."  There  is  no  necessity  or  ground  to 
suppose  either.  He  was  no  doubt  a  sturdy,  plain-spoken,  honest, 
well-disposed  man,  inclining  more  to  the  severe  than  the  amiable 
side  of  things ;  but  his  good  qualities,  learning,  talents,  and  con- 
vivial habits  preponderated  over  his  defects  of  temper  or  man- 
ners ;  and  in  a  course  of  friendship  some  difference  of  character, 
even  a  little  roughness  or  acidity,  may  relish  to  the  palate  ;  and 
olives  may  be  served  up  with  effect  as  well  as  sweetmeats.  Ben 
Jonson,  even  by  his  quarrels  and  jealousies,  does  not  seem  to 
have  been  curst  with  the  last  and  damning  disqualification  for 
friendship, — heartless  indifference.  He  was  also  what  is  under- 
stood by  a  good  felloio,  fond  of  good  cheer  and  good  company  : 
and  the  first  step  for  others  to  enjoy  your  society,  is  for  you  to 
enjoy  theirs.  If  any  one  can  do  without  the  world,  it  is  certain 
that  the  world  can  do  quite  as  well  without  him.  His  '  Verses 
Inviting  a  Friend  to  Supper'  give  us  as  familiar  an  idea  of  his 
private  habits  and  character,  as  his  '  Epistle  to  Michael  Drayton,' 
that  to  Selden,  &c. ;  his  *  Lines  to  the  Memory  of  9hakspeare,' 


152  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

and  his  noble  prose  '  Eulogy  on  Lord  Bacon,'  in  his  disgrace,  do 
a  favourable  one. 

Among  the  best  of  these  (perhaps  the  very  best)  is  the  *  Ad- 
dress to  Sir  Robert  Wroth,'  which,  besides  its  manly  moral  senti- 
ments, conveys  a  strikingly  picturesque  description  of  rural 
sports  and  manners  at  this  interesting  period  : 

"  How  blest  art  thou,  canst  love  the  country,  "Wroth, 

Whether  by  choice,  or  fate,  or  both ! 

And  though  so  near  the  city  and  the  court, 

Art  ta'en  with  neither's  vice  nor  sport : 

That  at  great  times,  art  no  ambitious  guest 

Of  sheriff's  dinner,  or  of  mayor's  feast; 

Nor  com'st  to  view  the  better  cloth  of  state, 

The  richer  hangings,  or  the  crown-plate  ; 

Nor  throng'st  (when  masquing  is)  to  have  a  sight 

Of  the  short  bravery  of  the  night ; 

To  view  the  jewels,  stuffs,  the  pains,  the  wit 

There  wasted,  some  not  paid  for  yet ! 

But  canst  at  home,  in  thy  securer  rest, 

Live  with  unbought  provision  blest; 

Free  from  proud  porches  or  their  gilded  roofs, 

'Mongst  lowing  beards  and  solid  hoofs: 

Along  the  curled  woods  and  painted  meads, 

Through  which  a  serpent  river  leads 

To  some  cool  courteous  shade,  which  he  calls  his, 

And  makes  sleep  softer  than  it  is  ! 

Or  if  thou  list  the  night  in  watch  to  break, 

A-bed  canst  hear  the  loud  stag  speak, 

In  spring  oft  roused  for  their  master's  sport, 

Who  for  it  makes  thy  house  his  court; 

Or  with  thy  friends,  the  heart  of  all  the  year, 

Divid'st  upon  the  lesser  deer ; 

In  autumn,  at  the  partrich  mak'st  a  flight, 

And  giv'st  thy  gladder  guests  the  sight ; 

And  in  the  winter  hunt'st  the  flying  hare, 

More  for  thy  exercise  than  fi\re  ; 

While  all  that  follows,  their  glad  ears  apply 

To  th«  full  greatness  of  the  cry: 

Or  hawking  at  the  river  or  the  bush, 

Or  shooting  at  the  greedy  thrush. 

Thou  dost  with  some  delight  the  day  out- wear, 

Although  the  coldest  of  the  year  ! 

The  whilst  the  several  seasons  thou  hast  seen 

Of  ilow'ry  fields,  of  copses  green, 


ON  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS,  ETC.  153 

The  mowed  meadows,  with  the  fleeced  sheep, 

And  feasts  that  either  shearers  keep  ; 

The  ripened  ears  yet  humble  in  their  height, 

And  furrows  laden  with  their  weight ; 

The  apple-harvest  that  doth  longer  last ; 

The  hogs  return'd  home  fat  from  mast ; 

The  trees  cut  out  in  log;  and  those  boughs  made 

A  fire  now,  that  lent  a  shade! 

Thus  Pan  and  Sylvan  having  had  their  rites, 

Comus  puts  in  for  new  delights  ; 

And  fills  thy  open  hall  with  mirth  and  cheer. 

As  if  in  Saturn's  reign  it  were ; 

Apollo's  harp  and  Hermes'  lyre  resound, 

Nor  are  the  Muses  strangers  found: 

The  rout  of  rural  folk  come  thronging  in 

(Their  rudeness  then  is  thought  no  sin). 

Thy  noblest  spouse  affords  them  welcome  grace  : 

And  the  great  heroes  of  her  race 

Sit  mixt  with  loss  of  state  or  reverence. 

Freedom  doth  with  degree  dispense. 

The  jolly  wassail  walks  the  often  round, 

And  in  their  cups  their  cares  are  drown'd : 

They  think  not  then  which  side  the  cause  shall  leese. 

Nor  how  to  get  the  lawyer  fees. 

Such,  and  no  other,  was  that  age  of  old, 

Which  boasts  t'  have  had  the  head  of  gold. 

And  such  since  thou  canst  make  thine  own  content, 

Strive,  Wroth,  to  live  long  innocent. 

Let  others  watch  in  guilty  arms,  and  stand 

The  fury  of  a  rash  command. 

Go  enter  breaches,  meet  the  cannon's  rage, 

That  they  may  sleep  with  scars  in  age. 

And  show  their  feathers  shot  and  colours  torn, 

And  brag  that  they  were  therefore  born. 

Let  this  man  sweat,  and  wrangle  at  the  bar 

For  every  price  in  every  jar. 

And  change  possessions  oftener  with  his  breath. 

Than  either  money,  war,  or  death : 

Let  him,  than  hardest  sires,  more  disinherit, 

And  eachwhere  boast  it  as  his  merit, 

1*0  blow  up  orphans,  widows,  and  their  states ; 

And  think  his  power  doth  equal  Fate's. 

Let  that  go  heap  a  mass  of  wretched  wealth, 

Purchas'd  by  rapine,  worse  than  stealth  ; 

And  brooding  o'er  it  sit,  with  broadest  eyes. 

Not  doing  good,  scarce  when  he  dies. 

11 


154  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

Let  thousands  more  go  flatter  vice,  and  win, 

By  being  organs  to  great  sin  ; 

Get  place  and  honour,  and  be  glad  to  keep 

The  secrets  that  shall  break  their  sleep  : 

And,  so  they  ride  in  purple,  eat  in  plate, 

Though  poison,  think  it  a  great  fate. 

But  thou,  my  Wroth,  if  I  can  truth  apply, 

Shalt  neither  that  nor  this  envy  : 

Thy  peace  is  made ;  and,  when  man's  state  is  well, 

'Tis  better,  if  he  there  can  dwell. 

God  wisheth  none  should  wrack  on  a  strange  shelf; 

To  him  man's  dearer  than  t'  himself. 

And  howsoever,  we  may  think  things  sweet. 

He  always  gives  what  he  knows  meet ; 

"Which  who  can  use  is  happy :  such  be  thou. 

Thy  morning's  and  thy  evening's  vow 

Be  thanks  to  him,  and  earnest  prayer,  to  find 

A  body  sound,  with  sounder  mind  ; 

To  do  thy  countiy  service,  thyself  right; 

That  neither  want  do  thee  affright, 

Nor  death  ;  but  wlien  thy  latest  sand  is  spent. 

Thou  mayst  think  life  a  thing  but  lent." 

Of  all  the  poetical  Epistles  of  this  period,  however,  that  of 
Daniel  to  the  Countess  of  Cumberland,  for  weight  of  thought  and 
depth  of  feeling,  bears  the  palm.  The  reader  will  not  peruse 
this  effusion  with  less  interest  or  pleasure,  from  knowing  that  it 
is  a  favourite  with  Mr.  Wordswortli : 

"He  that  of  such  a  height  hath  built  his  mind, 
And  rear'd  the  dwelling  of  his  thoughts  so  strong, 
As  neither  fear  nor  hope  can  shake  the  frame 
Of  his  resolved  powers ;  nor  all  the  wind 
Of  vanity  or  malice  pierce  to  wrong 
His  settled  peace,  or  to  disturb  the  same: 
What  a  fair  seat  hath  he,  from  whence  he  may 
The  boundless  wastes  and  wilds  of  man  survey  ! 
And  with  how  free  an  eye  doth  he  look  down 
Upon  these  lower  regions  of  turmoil. 
Where  all  the  storms  of  passions  mainly  beat 
On  flesh  and  blood:  where  honour,  pow'r,  renown, 
Are  only  gay  aflflictions,  golden  toil ; 
Where  greatness  stands  upon  as  feeble  feet 
As  frailty  doth;  and  only  great  doth  seem 
To  little  minds,  .who  do  it  so  esteem. 


ON  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS,  ETC.  155 

He  looks  upon  the  mightiest  monarch's  wars 
But  only  as  on  stately  robberies ; 
Where  evermore  the  fortune  that  prevails 
Must  be  the  right:  the  ill-succeeding  mars 
The  fairest  and  the  best  fac'd  enterprize. 
Great  pirate  Pompey  lesser  pirates  quails  : 
Justice,  he  sees  (as  if  seduced)  still 
Conspires  with  pow'r,  whose  cause  must  not  be  ill. 

He  sees  the  face  of  right  t'  appear  as  manifold 
As  are  the  passions  of  uncertain  man; 
Who  puts  it  in  all  colours,  all  attires, 
To  serve  his  ends,  and  make  his  courses  hold. 
He  sees,  that  let  deceit  work  what  it  can, 
Plot  and  contrive  base  v/ays  to  high  desires ; 
That  the  all-guiding  Providence  doth  yet 
All  disappoint,  and  mocks  this  smoke  of  wit. 

Nor  is  he  mov'd  with  all  the  thunder-cracks 
Of  tyrants'  threats,  or  with  the  surly  brow 
Of  pow'r,  that  proudly  sits  on  others'  crimes, 
Charg'd  with  more  crying  sins  than  those  he  checks. 
The  storms  of  sad  confusion,  that  may  grow 
Up  in  the  present  for  the  coming  times. 
Appal  not  him ;  that  hath  no  side  at  all, 
But  of  himself,  and  knows  the  worst  can  fall. 

Although  his  heart  (so  near  alUed  to  earth) 
Cannot  but  pity  the  perplexed  state 
Of  troublous  and  distress'd  mortality. 
That  thus  make  way  unto  the  ugly  hirth 
Of  their  own  sorrows,  and  do  still  beget 
Affliction  upon  imbecility : 
Yet  seeing  thus  the  course  of  things  must  run, 
He  looks  thereon  not  strange,  but  as  fore-done. 

And  whilst  distraught  ambition  compasses, 
And  is  encompass'd  ;  whilst  as  craft  deceives, 
And  is  deceiv'd ;  whilst  man  doth  ransack  man, 
And  builds  on  blood,  and  rises  by  distress ; 
And  th'  inheritance  of  desolation  leaves 
To  great  expecting  hopes ;  he  looks  thereon. 
As  from  the  shore  of  peace,  with  unwet  eye, 
And  bears  no  venture  in  impiety." 

Michael  Drayton's  '  Poly-Olbion'  is  a  work  of  great  length 
and  of  unabated  freshness  and  vigour  in  itself,  though  the  mono- 
tony of  the  subject  tires  the  reader.  He  describes  each  place 
with  the  accuracy  of  a  topographer,  and  the  enthusiasm  of  a 


136  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

poet,  as  if  his  muse  were  the  very  genius  loci.  His  '  Heroical 
Epistles'  are  also  excellent.  He  has  a  few  lighter  pieces,  but 
none  of  exquisite  beauty  or  grace.  His  mind  is  a  rich  marly 
soil  that  produces  an  abundant  harvest,  and  repays  the  husband- 
man's toil ;  but  few  flaunting  flowers,  the  garden's  pride,  grow 
in  it,  nor  any  poisonous  weeds. 

P.  Fletcher's  'Purple  Island'  is  nothing  but  a  long  enigma, 
describing  the  body  of  a  man,  with  the  heart  and  veins,  and  the 
blood  circulating  in  them,  uiader  the  fantastic  designation  of '  The 
Purple  Island.' 

The  other  poets  whom  I  shall  mention,  and  who  properly  be- 
long to  the  age  immediately  following,  were  William  Browne, 
Carew,  Crashaw,  Herrick,  and  Marvell.  Browne  was  a  pasto- 
ral poet,  with  much  natural  tenderness  and  sweetness,  and  a 
good  deal  of  allegorical  quaintness  and  prolixity.  Carew  was  an 
elegant  court-trifler.  Herrick  was  an  amorist,  with  perhaps 
more  fancy  than  feeling,  though  he  has  been  called  by  some  the 
English  Anacreon.  Crashaw  was  a  hectic  enthusiast  in  religion 
and  in  poetry,  and  erroneous  in  both.  Marvell  deserves  to  be  re- 
membered as  a  true  poet  as  well  as  patriot,  not  in  the  best  of 
times.  I  will,  however,  give  short  specimens  from  each  of  these 
writers,  that  the  reader  may  judge  for  himself,  and  be  led  by  his 
own  curiosity,  rather  than  my  recommendation,  to  consult  the 
originals.     Here  is  one  by  T.  Carew  : 

"  Ask  me  no  more  where  Jove  bestows, 
When  June  is  past,  the  fading  rose  : 
For  in  your  beauties,  orient  deep 
These  fiow'rs,  as  in  their  causes,  sleep. 

Ask  me  no  more,  wliithcr  do  stray 
The  golden  atoms  of  the  day  ; 
For  in  pure  love,  Heaven  did  prepare 
Those  powders  to  enrich  your  hair. 

Ask  me  no  more,  whither  doth  haste 
The  nightingale,  when  May  is  past ; 
For  in  your  sweet  dividing  throat 
She  winters,  and  keeps  wann  her  note. 

Ask  me  no  more,  where  those  stars  light, 
That  downwards  fall  in  dead  of  night ; 


ON  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS,  ETC.  157 

For  in  your  eyes  they  sit,  and  there 
Fixed  become,  as  in  their  sphere. 

Ask  me  no  more,  if  east  or  west 
The  phoenix  builds  her  spicy  nest ; 
For  unto  you  at  last  she  flies, 
And  in  your  fragrant  bosom  dies." 

'  The  Hue  and  Cry  of  Love,'  '  The  Epitaphs  on  Lady  Mary 
Villiers,'  and  '  The  Friendly  Reproof  to  Ben  Jonson  for  his  Angry 
Farewell  to  the  Stage,'  are  in  the  author's  best  manner.  We 
may  perceive,  however,  a  frequent  mixture  of  the  superficial  and 
common-place,  with  far-fetched  and  improbable  conceits. 

Herrick  is  a  writer  who  does  not  answer  the  expectations  I 
had  form^  of  him.  He  is  in  a  manner  a  modern  discovery,  and 
so  far  has  the  freshness  of  antiquity  about  him.  He  is  not  trite 
and  thread-bare.  But  neither  is  he  likely  to  become  so.  He  is 
a  writer  of  epigrams,  not  of  lyrics.  He  has  point  and  ingenuity, 
but  I  think  little  of  the  spirit  of  love  or  wine.  From  his  frequent 
allusion  to  pearls  and  rubies,  one  might  take  him  for  a  lapidary 
instead  of  a  poet.     One  of  his  pieces  is  entitled 

"  The  Rock  of  RvMes  and  the  (Quarry  of  Pearls. 

Some  ask'd  me  where  the  rubies  grew, 

And  nothing  I  did  say  ;  • 

But  with  my  finger  pointed  to 
The  lips  of  Julia. 

Some  ask'd  how  pearls  did  grow,  and  where ; 

Then  spoke  I  to  my  girl 
To  part  her  lips,  and  show  them  there 

The  quarrelets  of  pearl." 

Now  this  is  making  a  petrifaction  both  of  love  and  poetry. 

His  poems,  from  their  number  and  size,  are  "  like  the  moats 
that  play  in  the  sun's  beams;"  that  glitter  to  the  eye  of  fancy, 
but  leave  no  distinct  impression  on  the  memory.  The  two  best 
are  a  translation  of  Anacreon,  and  a  successful  and  spirited  imi- 
tation of  him. 


158  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

*•  The  Wounded  Cupid. 

Cupid,  as  he  lay  among 

Roses,  by  a  bee  was  stung. 

Whereupon,  in  anger  flying 

To  his  mother,  said  thus,  crying, 

Help,  oh  help,  your  boy's  a-dying! 

And  why,  my  pretty  lad  1  said  she. 

Then,  blubbering,  replied  he, 

A  winged  snake  has  bitten  me. 

Which  country-people  call  a  bee. 

At  which  she  smiled  ;  then  with  her  hairs 

And  kisses  drying  up  his  tears, 

Alas,  said  she,  my  wag  !  if  this 

Such  a  pernicious  torment  is  ; 

Come,  tell  me  then,  how  great 's  the  smart 

Of  those  thou  woundest  witli  thy  dart  V 

*  The  Captive  Bee,  or  the  Little  Filcher,'  is  his  own  : 

"  As  Julia  once  a  slumbering  lay, 

It  chanced  a  bee  did  fly  that  way, 

After  a  dew,  or  dew-like  show'r, 

To  tipple  freely  in  a  flow'r. 

For  some  rich  flow'r  he  took  the  lip 

Of  Julia,  and  began  to  sip: 

But  when  he  felt  he  suck'd  from  thence 

Honey,  and  in  the  quintessence, 

He  drank  so  much  he  scarce  could  stir  j 

So  Julia  took  the  pilferer. 

And  thus  surpris'd,  as  filchers  use, 

He  thus  began  himself  to  excuse  : 

Sweet  lady-flow'r  !  I  never  brought 

Hither  the  least  one  thieving  thought ; 

But  taking  those  rare  lips  of  your's 

For  some  fresh,  fragrant,  luscious  flow'rs, 

I  thought  I  might  there  take  a  taste, 

Where  so  much  syrup  run  at  waste ; 

Besides,  know  this,  I  never  sting 

The  flow'r  that  gives  me  nourishing  ; 

But  with  a  kiss  of  thanks  do  pay 

For  honey  that  I  bear  away. 

This  said,  he  laid  his  little  scrip 

Of  honey  'fore  her  ladyship; 

And  told  her,  as  some  tears  did  fall, 

That  that  he  took,  and  that  was  all. 

At  which  she  smil'd,  and  bid  him  gO; 


ON  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS,  ETC.  159 

And  take  his  bag,  but  thus  much  know. 
When  next  lie  came  a  pilfering  so, 
He  should  from  her  full  lips  derive 
Honey  enough  to  fill  his  hive." 

Of  Marvell  I  have  spoken  with  such  praise  as  appears  to  me 
his  due,  on  another  occasion  ;  but  the  public  are  deaf,  except  to 
proof  or  to  their  own  prejudices,  and  I  will  therefore  give  an  ex- 
ample of  the  sweetness  and  power  of  his  verse. 

"  To  his  Coy  Mistress. 

Had  we  but  world  enough,  and  time. 
This  coyness,  lady,  were  no  crime. 
We  would  sit  down  and  think  which  way 
To  walk,  and  pass  our  long  love's  day. 
Thou  by  the  [ndian  Ganges'  side 
Should'st  rubies  find :  I  by  the  tide 
Of  Humber  would  complain.     I  would 
Love  you  ten  years  before  the  flood  ; 
And  you  should,  if  you  please,  refuse 
Till  the  conversion  of  the  Jews. 
My  vegetable  love  should  grow 
Vaster  than  empires,  and  more  slow. 
An  hundred  years  should  go  to  praise 
Thine  eyes,  and  on  thy  forehead  gaze  ; 
Two  hundred  to  adore  each  breast ; 
But  thirty  thousand  to  the  rest. 
An  age  at  least  to  every  part, 
And  the  last  age  should  show  your  heart. 
For,  lady,  you  deserve  this  state  ; 
Nor  would  I  love  at  lower  rate. 

But  at  my  back  I  always  hear 
Time's  winged  chariot  hurrying  near : 
And  yonder  all  before  us  lie 
Deserts  of  vast  eternity. 
Thy  beauty  shall  no  more  be  found ; 
Nor  in  thy  marble  vault  shall  sound 
My  echoing  song  ;  then  worms  shall  try 
That  long  preserved  virginity  ; 
And  your  quaint  honour  turn  to  dust ; 
And  into  ashes  all  my  lust. 
The  grave's  a  fine  and  private  place. 
But  none,  I  think,  do  there  embrace. 

Now,  therefore,  while  the  youthful  hue 
Sits  on  thy  skin,  like  morning  dew, 


160  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

And  while  thy  willing  soul  transpires 

At  every  pore  with  instant  fires, 

Now  let  us  sport  us  while  we  may ; 

And  now,  like  amorous  birds  of  prey, 

Rather  at  once  our  time  devour, 

Than  languish  in  his  slow-chapp'd  powV. 

Let  us  roll  all  our  strength,  and  all 

Our  sweetness  up  into  one  ball ; 

And  tear  our  pleasures  with  rough  strife, 

Through  the  iron  gates  of  life. 

Thus,  though  we  cannot  make  our  sun 

Stand  still,  yet  we  will  make  him  run." 

In  Browne's  '  Pastorals,'  notwithstanding  the  weakness  and 
prolixity  of  his  general  plan,  there  are  repeated  examples  of 
single  lines  and  passages  of  extreme  beauty  and  delicacy,  both 
of  sentiment  and  description,  such  as  the  following  Picture  of 
Nieht : 


*o 


"  Clamour  grew  dumb,  unheard  was  shepherd's  song, 
And  silence  girt  the  woods  :  no  warbling  tongue 
Talk'd  to  the  echo  ;  satyrs  broke  their  dance, 
And  all  the  upper  world  lay  in  a  trance, 
Only  the  curled  streams  soft  chidings  kept ; 
And  little  gales  that  from  the  green  leaf  swept 
Diy  summer's  dust,  in  fearful  whisperings  stirrd, 
As  loth  to  waken  any  singing  bird." 

Poetical  beauties  of  this  sort  are  scattered,  not  sparingly,  over 
tne  green  lap  of  nature  through  almost  every  page  of  our  author's 
writings.  His  description  of  the  squirrel  hunted  by  mischievous 
boys,  of  the  flowers  stuck  in  the  windows  like  the  hues  of  the 
rainbow,  and  innumerable  others,  might  be  quoted. 

His  '  Philarete'  (the  fourth  song  of  the  '  Shepherd's  Pipe')  has 
been  said  to  be  the  origin  of'  Lycidas ;'  but  there  is  no  resem- 
blance, except  that  both  are  pastoral  elegies  for  the  loss  of  a 
friend.  '  The  Inner  Temple  Mask'  has  also  been  made  the  foun- 
dation of  '  Comus,'  with  as  little  reason.  But  so  it  is  :  if  an  au- 
thor  is  once  detected  in  borrowing,  he  will  be  suspected  of  pla- 
giarism ever  after  ;  and  every  writer  that  finds  an  ingenious  or 
partial  editor,  will  be  made  to  set  up  his  claim  to  originality 
against  him.    A  more  serious  charge  of  this  kind  has  been  urged 


ON  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS,  ETC.  161 

against  the  principal  character  in  '  Paradise  Lost'  (that  of  Satan), 
which  is  said  to  have  been  taken  from  Marino,  an  Italian  poet. 
Of  this  we  may  be  able  to  form  some  judgment,  by  a  comparison 
with  Crashaw's  translation  of  Marino's  '  Sospetto  d'Herode.' 
The  description  of  Satan  alluded  to  is  given  in  the  following 
stanzas  : — 

"  Below  the  bottom  of  the  great  abyss, 
There  where  one  centre  reconciles  all  things, 
The  world's  profound  heart  pants ;  there  placed  is 
Mischiefs  old  master  ;  close  about  him  clings 
A  curl'd  knot  of  embracing  snakes,  that  kiss 
His  correspondent  cheeks ;  these  loathsome  strings 
Hold  the  perverse  prince  in  eternal  ties 
Fast  bound,  since  first  he  forfeited  the  skies. 

The  judge  of  torments,  and  the  king  of  tears, 
He  fills  a  burnish'd  throne  of  quenchless  fire; 
And  for  his  own  fair  robes  of  light,  he  wears 
A  gloomy  mantle  of  dark  flames;  the  tire 
That  crowns  his  hated  head,  on  high  appears  ; 
Where  seven  tall  horns  (his  empire's  pride)  aspire ; 
And.  to  make  up  hell's  majesty,  each  horn 
Seven  crested  hydras  horribly  adorn. 

His  eyes,  the  sullen  dens  of  death  and  night, 
Startle  the  dull  air  with  a  dismal  red; 
Such  his  fell  glances  as  the  fatal  light 
Of  staring  comets,  that  look  kingdoms  dead. 
From  his  black  nostrils  and  blue  lips,  in  spite 
Of  hell's  own  stink,  a  worser  stench  is  spread. 
His  breath  hell's  lightning  is  ;  and  each  deep  groan 
Disdains  to  think  that  heaven  thunders  alone. 

His  flaming  eyes'  dire  exhalation 

Unto  a  di-eadful  pile  gives  fiery  breath  ; 

Whose  unconsum'd  consumption  preys  upon 

The  never-dying  life  of  a  long  death. 

In  this  sad  house  of  slow  destruction 

(His  shop  of  flames)  he  fries  himself  beneath 

A  mass  of  woes;  his  teeth  for  torment  gnash, 

While  his  steel  sides  sound  with  his  tail's  strong  lash." 

This  portrait  of  monkish  superstition  does  not  equal  the  gran- 
deur of  Milton's  description : 


162  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 


"  His  form  had  not  yet  lost 

All  her  original  brightness,  nor  appear'd 
Less  than  archangel  ruin'd  and  the  excess 
Of  glory  obscured." 

Milton  has  got  rid  of  the  horns  and  tail,  the  vulgar  and  physi- 
cal insignia  of  the  devil,  and  clothed  him  with  other  greater  and 
intellectual  terrors,  reconciling  beauty  and  sublimity,  and  con- 
verting  the  grotesque  and  deformed  into  the  ideal  and  classical. 
Certainty,  Milton's  mind  rose  superior  to  all  others  in  this  res- 
pect, on  the  outstretched  wings  of  philosophic  contemplation,  in 
not  confounding  the  depravity  of  the  will  with  physical  distortion, 
or  supposing  that  the  distinctions  of  good  and  evil  were  only  to 
be  subjected  to  the  gross  ordeal  of  the  senses.  In  the  subsequent 
stanzas,  we  however  find  the  traces  of  some  of  Milton's  boldest 
imagery,  though  its  effect  be  injured  by  the  incongruous  mixture 
above  stated. 

"  Struck  with  these  great  concurrences  of  things,* 
Symptoms  so  deadly  unto  death  and  him  ; 
Fain  would  he  have  forgot  what  fatal  strings 
Eternally  bind  each  rebellious  limb, 
He  shook  himself,  and  spread  his  spacious  wings, 
Which  like  two  bosom'd  sailst  embrace  the  dim 
Air,  with  a  dismal  shade,  but  all  in  vain : 
Of  sturdy  adamant  is  his  strong  chain. 

While  thus  heav'n's  counsels,  by  the  low 
Footsteps  of  their  effects,  he  traced  too  well, 
He  tost  his  troubled  eyes,  embers  that  glow 
Now  with  new  rage,  and  wax  too  hot  for  hell. 
With  his  foul  claws  he  fenced  his  furrow'd  brow, 
And  gave  a  ghastly  shriek,  whose  horrid  yell 
Ran  trembling  through  tlie  hollow  vaults  of  night." 

The  poet  adds — 

"  The  while  his  twisted  tail  he  gnaw'd  for  spite." 

There  is  no  keeping  in  this.  This  action  of  meanness  and 
mere  vulgar  spite,  common  to  the  most  contemptible  creatures, 

♦  Alluding  to  the  fulfilment  of  the  prophecies  and  the  birth  of  the  Messiali. 
t  "  He  spreads  his  sail-broad  vans." — '  Par.  Lost,'  b.  ii.,  1.  927. 


ON  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS,  ETC.  163 

takes  away  from  the  terror  and  power  just  ascribed  to  the  prince 
of  Hell,  and  implied  in  the  nature  of  the  consequences  attributed 
to  his  every  movement  of  mind  or  body.  Satan's  soliloquy  to 
himself  is  more  beautiful  and  more  in  character  at  the  same 
time : 

"Art  thou  not  Lucifer'?  he  to  whom  the  droves 
^    Of  stars  that  gild  the  morn  in  charge  were  given  1 
The  nimblest  of  the  lightning-winged  loves  1 
The  fairest  and  the  first-born  smile  of  heav'n  1 
Look  in  what  pomp  the  mistress  planet  moves, 
Reverently  circled  by  the  lesser  seven  : 
Such  and  so  rich  the  flames  that  from  thine  eyes 
Opprest  the  common  people  of  the  skies  1 
Ah  !  wretch  !  what  boots  it  to  cast  back  thine  eyes 
Where  dawning  hope  no  beam  of  comfort  shows  V  &c. 

This  is  true  beauty  and  true  sublimity  :  it  is  also  true  pathos 
and  morality :  for  it  interests  the  mind,  and  affects  it  powerfully 
with  the  idea  of  glory  tarnished,  and  happiness  forfeited  with  the 
loss  of  virtue ;  but  from  the  horns  and  tail  of  the  brute-demon, 
imagination  cannot  re-ascend  to  the  Son  of  the  morning,  nor  be 
dejected  by  the  transition  from  weal  to  woe,  which  it  cannot 
without  a  violent  effort  picture  to  itself. 

In  our  author's  account  of  Cruelty,  the  chief  minister  of  Satan, 
there  is  also  a  considerable  approach  to  Milton's  description  of 
Death  and  Sin,  the  portress  of  hell-gates  : 

"  Thrice  howl'd  the  caves  of  night,  and  thrice  the  sound, 
Thundering  upon  the  banks  of  those  black  lakes, . 
Rung  through  the  hollow  vaults  of  hell  profound : 
At  last  her  listening  ears  the  noise  o'ertakes, 
She  lifts  her  sooty  lamps,  and  looking  round, 
A  general  hiss,*  from  the  whole  tire  of  snakes 
Rebounding  through  hell's  inmost  caverns  came, 
In  answer  to  her  formidable  name. 

'Mongst  all  the  palaces  in  hell's  command, 
No  one  so  merciless  as  this  of  hers, 
The  adamantine  doors  for  ever  stand 
Impenetrable,  both  to  prayers  and  tears. 

♦  See  Satan's  reception  on  his  return  to  Pandemonium,  in  bookx.  of '  Para- 
dise Lost.' 


164  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

The  walls'  inexorable  steel,  no  hand 
Of  time,  or  teeth  of  hungry  ruin  fears." 

On  the  whole,  tliis  poem,  though  Milton  has  undoubtedly- 
availed  himself  of  many  ideas  and  passages  in  it,  raises  instead 
of  lowering  our  conception  of  him,  by  showing  how  much  more 
he  added  to  it  than  he  has  taken  from  it. 

Crashaw's  translation  of  Strada's  description  of  the  contention 
between  a  nightingale  and  a  musician,  is  elaborate  and  spirited, 
but  not  equal  to  Ford's  version  of  the  same  story  in  his  '  Lover's 
Melancholy,'  One  line  may  serve  as  a  specimen  of  delicate 
quaintness,  and  of  Crashaw's  style  in  general  : 

"  And  witli  a  quavering  coyness  tastes  the  strings."  ' 

Sir  Philip  Sidney  is  a  writer  for  whom  I  cannot  acquire  a 
taste.  As  Mr.  Burke  said,  "  he  could  not  love  the  French  Re- 
public"— so  I  may  say,  that  I  cannot  love  '  The  Countess  of 
Pembroke's  Arcadia,'  with  all  my  good-will  to  it.  It  will  not  do 
for  me,  however,  to  imitate  the  summary  petulance  of  the  epi- 
grammatist : 

"  The  reason  why  I  cannot  tell, 
But  I  don't  like  thee,  Dr.  Fell." 

I  must  give  my  reasons,  "  on  compulsion,"  for  not  speaking 
well  of  a  person  like  Sir  Philip  Sidney — 

"The  soldier's,  scholar's,  courtier's  eye,  tongue,  sword. 
The  glass  of  fashion,  and  the  mould  of  form;" 

the  splendour  of  whose  personal  accomplishments,  and  of  whose 
wide-spread  fame,  was,  in  his  life-time, 


"  Like  a  gate  of  steel, 


Fronting  the  sun,  that  renders  back 
His  figure  and  his  heat" — 

a  writer,  too,  who  was  universally  read  and  enthusiastically  ad- 
mired for  a  century  after  his  death,  and  who  has  been  admired 
with  scarce  less  enthusiastic,  but  with  a  more  distant  homage, 
for  another  century,  after  ceasing  to  be  read. 


ON  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS,  ETC.  165 

We  have  lost  the  art  of  reading,  or  the  privilege  of  writino-, 
voluminously,  since  the  days  of  Addison.  Learning  no  lono-er 
weaves  the  interminable  page  with  patient  drudgery,  nor  igno- 
rance pores  over  it  with  implicit  faith.  As  authors  multiply  in 
number,  books  diminish  in  size ;  we  cannot  now,  as  formerly, 
swallow  libraries  whole  in  a  single  folio :  solid  quarto  has  given 
place  to  slender  duodecimo,  and  the  dingy  letter-press  contracts 
its  dimensions,  and  retreats  before  the  white,  unsullied,  faultless 
margin.  Modern  authorship  is  become  a  species  of  stenography  : 
we  contrive  even  to  read  by  proxy.  We  skim  the  cream  of  prose 
without  any  trouble  ;  we  get  at  the  quintessence  of  poetry  with- 
out loss  of  time.  The  staple  commodity,  the  coarse,  heavy,  dirty, 
unwieldy  bullion  of  books,  is  driven  out  of  the  market  of  learning, 
and  the  intercourse  of  the  literary  world  is  carried  on,  and  the 
credit  of  the  great  capitalists  sustained  by  the  flimsy  circulating 
medium  of  magazines  and  reviews.  Those  who  are  chiefly  con- 
cerned in  catering  for  the  taste  of  others,  and  serving  up  critical 
opinions  in  a  compendious,  elegant,  and  portable  form,  are  not 
forgetful  of  themselves  :  they  are  not  scrupulously  solicitous, 
idly  inquisitive,  about  the  real  merits,  the  lona  fide  contents  of 
the  works  they  are  deputed  to  appraise  and  value,  any  more  than 
the  reading  public  who  employ  them.  They  look  no  farther  for 
the  contents  of  the  work  than  the  title-page,  and  pronounce  a 
peremptory  decision  on  its  merits  or  defects  by  a  glance  at  the 
name  and  party  of  the  writer.  This  state  of  polite  letters  seems 
to  admit  of  improvement  in  only  one  respect,  which  is  to  go  a 
step  farther,  and  write  for  the  amusement  and  edification  of  the 
world,  accounts  of  works  that  were  never  either  written  or  read 
at  all,  and  to  cry  up  or  abuse  the  authors  by  name,  though  they 
have  no  existence  but  in  the  critic's  invention.  This  would  save 
a  great  deal  of  labour  in  vain  ;  anonymous  critics  might  pounce 
upon  the  defenceless  heads  of  fictitious  candidates  for  fame  and 
bread  ;  reviews,  from  being  novels  founded  upon  facts,  would 
aspire  to  be  pure  romances ;  and  we  should  arrive  at  the  heau 
ideal  of  a  commonwealth  of  letters,  at  the  euthanasia  of  thought, 
and  millennium  of  criticism ! 

At  the  time  that  Sir  Philip  Sidney's  *  Arcadia'  was  written, 
those  middle-men,  the  critics,  were  not  known.     The  author  ancJ 


166  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

reader  came  into  immediate  contact,  and  seemed  never  tired  of 
eacli  other's  company.  We  are  more  fastidious  and  dissipated : 
the  effeminacy  of  modern  taste  would,  I  am  afraid,  shrink  back 
affrighted  at  the  formidable  sight  of  this  once  popular  work, 
which  is  about  as  long  [horresco  referens  !)  as  all  Walter  Scott's 
novels  put  together ;  but  besides  its  size  and  appearance,  it  has, 
I  think,  other  defects  of  a  more  intrinsic  and  insuperable  nature. 
It  is  to  me  one  of  the  greatest  monuments  of  the  abuse  of  intel- 
lectual power  upon  record.  It  puts  one  in  mind  of  the  court 
dresses  and  preposterous  fashions  of  the  time,  which  are  grown 
obsolete  and  disgusting.  It  is  not  romantic,  but  scholastic  ;  not 
poetry,  but  casuistry ;  not  nature,  but  art,  and  the  worst  sort  of 
art,  which  tWnks  it  can  do  better  than  nature.  Of  the  number 
of  fme  things  that  are  constantly  passing  through  the  author's 
mind,  there  is  hardly  one  that  he  has  not  contrived  to  spoil,  and 
to  spoil  purposely  and  maliciously,  in  order  to  aggrandize  our 
idea  of  himself.  Out  of  five  hundred  folio  pages,  there  are 
hardly,  I  conceive,  half  a  dozen  sentences  expressed  simply  and 
directly,  with  the  sincere  desire  to  convey  the  image  implied, 
and  without  a  systematic  interpolation  of  the  wit,  learning,  inge- 
nuity, wisdom,  and  everlasting  impertinence  of  the  writer,  so  as 
to  disguise  the  object,  instead  of  displaying  it  in  its  true  colours 
and  real  proportions.  Every  page  is  with  "  centric  and  eccentric 
scribbled  o'er ;"  his  muse  is  tattooed  and  tricked  out  like  an 
Indian  goddess.  He  writes  a  court-hand,  with  flourishes  like  a 
schoolmaster ;  his  figures  are  wrought  in  chain-stitch.  All  his 
thoughts  are  forced  and  painful  births,  and  may  be  said  to  be 
delivered  by  the  Ca^sarean  operation.  At  last,  they  become  dis- 
torted and  rickety-  in  themselves  ;  and  before  they  have  been 
cramped  and  twisted  and  swaddled  into  lifelessness  and  deformity. 
Imagine  a  writer  to  have  great  natural  talents,  great  powers  of 
memory  and  invention,  an  eye  for  nature,  a  knowledge  of  the 
passions,  much  learning,  and  equal  industry :  but  that  he  is  so 
full  of  a  consciousness  of  all  this,  and  so  determined  to  make  the 
reader  conscious  of  it  at  every  step,  that  he  becomes  a  complete 
intellectual  coxcomb,  or  nearly  so ; — that  he  never  lets  a  casual 
observation  pass  without  perplexing  it  with  an  endless,  running 
commentary,  that  he  never  states  a  feeling  without  so  many 


ON  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS,  ETC.  167 

circumamhages,  without  so  many  interlineations  and  parenthetical 
remarks  on  all  that  can  be  said  for  it,  and  anticipations  of  all  that 
can  be  said  against  it,  and  that  he  never  mentions  a  fact  without 
giving  so  many  circumstances,  and  conjuring  up  so  many  thinsjs 
that  it  is  like  or  not  like,  that  you  lose  the  main  clue  of  the  story 
in  its  infinite  ramifications  and  intersections  ;  and  we  may  form 
some  faint  idea  of  '  Tlie  Countess  of  Pembroke's  Arcadia,'  which 
is  spun  with  great  labour  out  of  the  author's  brains,  and  hangs 
like  a  huge  cobweb  over  the  face  of  nature  !  This  is  not,  as  far 
as  I  can  judge,  an  exaggerated  description  ;  but  as  near  the  truth 
as  I  can  make  it.  The  proofs  are  not  far  to  seek.  Take  the 
first  sentence,  or  open  the  volume  anywhere  and  read.  I  will, 
however,  take  one  of  the  most  beautiful  passages,  near  the  be- 
ginning, to  show  how  the  subject  matter,  of  which  the  noblest  use 
might  have  been  made,  is  disfigured  by  the  affectation  of  the 
style,  and  the  importunate  and  vain  activity  of  the  writer's  mind. 
The  passage  I  allude  to  is  the  celebrated  description  of  Arcadia. 

"  So  that  the  third  day  after,  in  the  time  that  the  morning  did  strew  roses 
and  violets  in  the  heavenly  floor  against  the  coming  of  the  sun,  the  nightin- 
gales (striving  one  with  the  other  which  could  in  most  dainty  variety  recount 
their  wrong-caused  sorrow)  made  them  put  off  their  sleep,  and  rising  from 
under  a  tree  (which  that  night  had  been  their  pavilion)  they  went  on  their 
journey,  which  by-and-by  welcomed  Musidorus'  eyes  (wearied  with  the 
wasted  soil  of  Laconia)  with  welcome  prospects.  There  were  hills  which 
garnished  their  proud  heights  with  stately  trees  :  humble  valleys  whose  base 
estate  seemed  comforted  with  the  refreshing  of  silver  rivers;  meadows  ena- 
melled with  all  sorts  of  eye-pleasing  flowers;  thickets,  which  being  lined  with 
most  pleasant  shade  were  witnessed  so  to,  by  the  cheerful  disposition  of  many 
well-tunedbirds ;  each  pasture  stored  with  sheep  feeding  with  sober  security, 
while  the  pretty  lambs,  with  bleating  oratoiy  craved  the  dam's  comfort ;  here 
a  shepherd's  boy  piping,  as  though  he  should  never  be  old :  there  a  young 
shepherdess  knitting,  and  withal  singing,  and  it  seemed  that  her  voice  com- 
forted her  hands  to  work,  and  her  hands  kept  time  to  her  voice-music.  As 
for  the  houses  of  the  country  (for  many  houses  came  under  their  eye)  they 
were  scattered,  no  two  being  one  by  the  other,  and  yet  not  so  far  off,  as  that 
it  barred  mutual  succour ;  a  show,  as  it  were,  of  an  accompaniable  solitari- 
ness, and  of  a  civil  wildness.  I  pray  you,  said  Musidorus  (then  first  unseal- 
ing his  long-silent  lips),  what  counti-ies  be  these  we  pass  through,  which  are 
so  divers  in  show,  the  one  wanting  no  store,  the  other  having  no  store  but  of 
want!  The  country,  answered  Claius,  where  you  were  cast  ashore,  and  now 
are  passed  through,  is  Laconia;  but  this  country  (where  you  now  set  your 
foot)  is  Arcadia." 


168  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

One  would  think  the  very  name  might  have  lulled  his  senses 
to  delightful  repose  in  some  still,  lonely  valley,  and  have  laid 
the  restless  spirit  of  Gothic  quaintness,  witticism,  and  conceit  in 
the  lap  of  classic  elegance  and  pastoral  simplicity.  Here  are 
images,  too,  of  touching  beauty  and  everlasting  truth  that  needed 
nothing  but  to  be  simply  and  nakedly  expressed  to  have  made  a 
picture  equal  (nay  superior)  to  the  allegorical  representation  of 
*  The  Four  Seasons  of  Life,'  by  Giorgione.  But  no !  He  can- 
not let  his  imagination,  or  that  of  the  reader,  dwell  for  a  moment 
on  the  beauty  or  power  of  the  real  object.  He  thinks  nothing  is 
done,  unless  it  is  his  doing.  He  must  officiously  and  gratui- 
tously interpose  between  you  and  the  subject,  as  the  Cicerone 
of  Nature,  distracting  the  eye  and  the  mind  by  continual  un- 
called-for interruptions,  analyzing,  dissecting,  disjointing,  murder- 
ing everything,  and  reading  a  pragmatical,  self-sufficient  lecture 
over  the  dead  body  of  nature.  The  moving-spring  of  his  mind  is 
not  sensibility  or  imagination,  but  dry,  literal,  unceasing  craving 
after  intellectual  excitement,  which  is  indifferent  to  pleasure  or 
pain,  to  beauty  or  deformity,  and  likes  to  owe  everything  to  its 
own  perverse  efforts,  rather  than  the  sense  of  power  in  other 
things.  It  constantly  interferes  to  perplex  and  neutralize.  It 
never  leaves  the  mind  in  a  wise  passiveness.  In  the  infancy  of 
taste,  the  frovvard  pupils  of  art  took  nature  to  pieces,  as  spoiled 
children  do  a  watch,  to  see  what  was  in  it.  After  taking  it  to 
pieces  they  could  not,  with  all  their  cunning,  put  it  together  again, 
so  as  to  restore  circulation  to  the  heart,  or  its  living  hue  to  the 
face !  The  quaint  and  pedantic  style  here  objected  to  was  not, 
however,  the  natural  growth  of  untutored  fancy,  but  an  artifi- 
cial excrescence  transferred  from  logic  and  rhetoric  to  poetry. 
It  was  not  owing  to  the  excess  of  imagination,  but  of  the  want 
of  it,  that  is,  to  the  predominance  of  the  mere  understanding  or 
dialectic  faculty  over  the  imaginative  and  the  sensitive.  It  is, 
in  fact,  poetry  degenerating  at  every  step  into  prose,  sentiment 
entangling  itself  into  a  controversy,  from  the  habitual  leaven  of 
polemics  and  casuistry  in  the  writer's  mind.  The  poet  insists 
upon  matters  of  fact  from  the  beauty  or  grandeur  that  accom- 
panies them ;  our  prose-poet  insists  upon  them  because  they  are 
matters  of  fact,  and  buries  the  beauty  and  grandeur  in  a  heap 


ON  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS,  ETC.  169 

of  common  rubbish,  "  like  two  grains  of  wheat  in  a  bushel  of 
chatf."  The  true  poet  illustrates  for  ornament  or  use  :  the  fan- 
tastic pretender  only  because  he  is  not  easy  till  he  can  translate 
everything  out  of  itself  into  something  else.  Imagination  con- 
sists in  enriching  one  idea  by  another,  which  has  the  same  feel- 
ing or  set  of  associations  belonging  to  it  in  a  higher  or  more 
striking  degree  ;  the  quaint  or  scholastic  style  consists  in  com- 
paring one  thing  to  another  by  the  mere  process  of  abstraction, 
and  the  more  forced  and  naked  the  comparison,  the  less  of  har- 
mony or  congruity  there  is  in  it,  the  more  wire-drawn  and  am- 
biguous the  link  of  generalization  by  which  objects  are  brought 
together,  the  greater  is  the  triumph  of  the  false  and  fanciful 
style.  There  was  a  marked  instance  of  the  difference  in  some 
lines  from  Ben  Jonson,  which  I  have  above  quoted,  and  which, 
as  they  are  alternate  examples  of  the  extremes  of  both  in  the 
same  author,  and  in  the  same  short  poem,  there  can  be  nothing 
invidious  in  giving.  In  conveying  an  idea  of  female  softness 
and  sweetness,  he  asks — 

"  Have  you  felt  the  wool  of  the  beaver, 
Or  swan's  down  ever'? 
Or  smelt  of  the  bud  of  the  briar, 
Or  the  nard  in  the  fireT' 

Now  "  the  swan's  down  "  is  a  strikinsj  and  beautiful  imasfe  of 
the  most  delicate  and  yielding  softness  ;  but  we  have  no  associa- 
tions of  a  pleasing  sort  with  the  wool  of  the  beaver.  The  com- 
parison is  dry,  hard,  and  barren  of  effect.  It  may  establish  the 
matter  of  fact,  but  detracts  from  and  impairs  the  sentiment.  The 
smell  of  the  "bud  of  the  briar*'  is  a  double-distilled  essence  of 
sweetness :  besides,  there  are  all  the  other  concomitant  ideas  of 
youth,  beauty,  and  blushing  modesty,  which  blend  with  and 
heighten  the  immediate  feeling :  but  the  poetical  reader  was  not 
bound  to  know  even  what  nard  is  (it  is  merely  a  learned  sub- 
stance, a  nonentity  to  the  imagination),  nor  whether  it  has  a  fra- 
grant  or  disagreeable  scent  when  thrown  into  the  fire,  till  Ben 
Jonson  went  out  of  his  way  to  give  him  this  pedantic  piece  of  in- 
formation.  It  is  a  mere  matter  of  fact  or  of  experiment ;  and 
while  the  experiment  is  making  in  reality  or  fancy,  the  sentiment 
12 


170  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

Stands  still ;  or  even  taking  it  for  granted  in  the  literal  and  scien- 
tific sense,  we  are  where  we  were  ;  it  does  not  enhance  the  pas- 
sion to  he  expressed  :  we  have  no  love  for  the  smell  of  nard  in 
the  fire,  but  we  have  an  old,  a  long  cherished  one  from  infancy, 
for  the  bud  of  the  briar.  Sentiment,  as  ]\Ir.  Burke  said  of  no- 
bility, is  a  thing  of  inveterate  prejudice  ;  and  cannot  be  created, 
as  some  people  (learned  and  unlearned)  are  inclined  to  suppose, 
out  of  fancy  or  out  of  anything  by  the  wit  of  man.  The  artifi- 
cial and  natural  style  do  not  alternate  in  this  way  in  the  '  Arca- 
dia :'  the  one  is  but  the  Helot,  the  eyeless  drudge  of  the  other. 
Thus  even  in  the  above  passage,  which  is  comparatively  beauti- 
ful  and  simple  in  its  general  structure,  we  have  "  the  bleating 
oratory"  of  lambs,  as  if  anything  could  be  more  unlike  oratory 
than  the  bleating  of  lambs.  We  have  a  young  shepherdess  knit- 
ting, whose  hands  keep  time  not  to  her  .voice,  but  to  her  "  voice- 
music,"  which  introduces  a  foreign  and  questionable  distinction, 
merely  to  perplex  the  subject ;  we  have  meadows  enamelled  with 
all  the  sorts  of  "  eye-pleasing  flowers,"  as  if  it  were  necessary 
to  inform  the  reader  that  flowers  pleased  the  eye,  or  as  if  they 
did  not  please  any  other  sense  :  Me  have  valleys  refreshed  •'  with 
silver  streams,"  an  epithet  that  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  re- 
freshment here  spoken  of:  we  have  "an  accompaniable  solitari- 
ness and  a  civil  wildness,"  which  are  a  pair  of  very  laboured 
antitheses  ;  in  fine,  we  have  "  want  of  store,  and  store  of  want." 

Again,  the  passage  describing  the  shipwreck  of  Pyrochles  has 
been  much  and  deservedly  admired :  yet  it  is  not  free  from  the 
same  inherent  faults. 

"  But  a  little  way  off  they  saw  the  mast  (of  the  vessel)  whose  proud  height 
now  lay  along,  like  a  widow  liaving  lost  her  mate,  of  whom  she  held  her 
honour."  [This  needed  explanation.]  "  But  upon  the  mast  they  saw  a  young 
man  (at  least  if  it  were  a  man)  bearing  show  of  about  eighteen  years  of  age, 
who  sat  (as  on  horseback)  having  nothing  upon  him  but  his  shirt,  which  be- 
ing wrought  with  blue  silk  and  gold,  had  a  kind  of  resemblance  to  the  sea," 
[this  is  a  sort  of  alliteration  in  natural  history',]  •'  on  wliich  the  sun  [then  near 
liis  western  home]  did  shoot  some  of  his  beams.  His  hair  [which  tlie  young 
men  of  Greece  used  to  wear  very  long]  was  stirred  up  and  down  with  the 
wind,  which  seemed  to  have  a  sport  to  play  with  it,  as  the  sea  had  to  kiss  his 
feet;  him.sclf  full  of  admirable  beauty,  set  forth  by  the  strangeness  both  of  his 
seat  and  gesture  ;  for,  iiolding  his  head  up  full  of  unmoved  majesty,  he  held  a 


ON  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS,  ETC.  171 

sword  aloft  with  liis  fair  arm,  which  often  he  waved  about  his  crown,   as 
though  he  would  threaten  the  world  in  that  extremity." 

If  the  original  sin  of  alliteration,  antithesis,  and  metaphysical 
conceit  could  be  weeded  out  of  this  passage,  there  is  hardly  a 
more  heroic  one  to  be  found  in  prose  or  poetry. 

Here  is  one  more  passage  marred  in  the  making.  A  shep- 
herd is  supposed  to  say  of  his  mistress, 

"  Certainly,  as  her  eyelids  are  more  pleasant  to  behold  than  two  white  kids 
climbing  up  a  fair  tree  and  browsing  on  its  tenderest  branches,  and  yet  are 
nothing  compared  to  the  day-shining  stars  contained  in  them ;  and  as  her 
breath  is  more  sweet  than  a  gentle  south-west  wind,  which  comes  creeping 
over  flov/ery  fields  and  shadowed  waters  in  the  extreme  heat  of  summer;  and 
yet  is  nothing  compared  to  the  honey-flowing  speech  that  breath  doth  carry; 
no  more  all  tliat  our  eyes  can  see  of  her  [though  when  they  have  seen  her, 
what  else  they  shall  ever  see  is  but  dry  stubble  after  clover  grass],  is  to  be 
matched  with  the  flock  of  unspeakable  virtues  laid  up  delightfully  in  that  best 
builded  fold." 

Now  here  are  images  of  singular  beauty  and  of  Eastern  ori- 
ginality and  daring,  followed  up  with  enigmatical  or  unmeaning 
common-places,  because  he  never  knows  when  to  leave  off,  an,d 
thinks  he  can  never  be  too  wise  or  too  dull  for  his  reader.  He 
loads  his  prose  Pegasus  like  a  pack-horse,  with  all  that  comes, 
and  with  a  number  of  little  trifling  circumstances,  that  fall  off, 
and  you  are  obliged  to  stop  to  pick  them  up  by  the  way.  He 
cannot  give  his  imagination  a  moment's  pause,  thinks  nothing 
done  while  any  thing  remains  to  do,  and  exhausts  nearly  all  that 
can  be  said  upon  the  subject,  whether  good,  bad,  or  indifferent. 
The  above  passages  are  taken  from  the  beginning  of  the  '  Arca- 
dia,' when  the  author's  style  was  hardly  yet  formed.  The  fol- 
lowing is  a  less  favourable,  but  fairer  specimen  of  the  work.  It 
is  the  model  of  a  love-letter,  and  is  only  longer  than  that  of 
Adriano  de  Armada,  in  '  Love's  Labour's  Lost.' 

"Most  blessed  paper,  which  shall  kiss  that  hand,  whereto  all  blessedness 
is  in  nature  a  servant,  do  not  yet  disdain  to  cany  with  thee  the  woful  words 
of  a  miser  now  despairing  :  neither  be  afraid  to  appear  before  her,  bearing  the 
base  title  of  the  sender.  For  no  sooner  shall  that  divine  hand  touch  thee,  but 
tliat  thy  baseness  shall  be  turned  to  most  high  preferment.  Therefore  mourn 
boldly  my  ink :  for  while  she  looks  upon  you  your  blackness  will  shine  :  cry 


172  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

out  boldly  my  lamentation,  for  while  she  reads  you  your  cries  will  be  music. 
Say  then  (O  happy  messenger  of  a  most  unhappy  message)  that  the  too  soon 
born  and  too  late  dying  creature,  which  dares  not  speak,  no,  not  look,  no, 
not  scarcely  think  (as  from  his  miserable  self  unto  her  heavenly  highness), 
only  presumes  to  desire  thee  (in  the  time  that  her  eyes  and  voice  do  exalt 
thee)  to  say,  and  in  this  manner  to  say,  not  from  him,  oh,  no,  that  were  not 
lit,  but  of  him,  thus  much  unto  her  sacred  judgment.  O  you,  the  only  honour 
to  women,  to  men  the  admiration,  you  that  being  armed  by  love,  defy  him  that 
armed  you  in  this  high  estate  wherein  you  have  placed  me"  [i.  e.  tlie  letter], 
"  yet  let  me  remember  him  to  whom  I  am  bound  for  bringing  me  to  your  pre- 
sence :  and  let  me  remember  him,  who  (since  he  is  yours,  how  mean  soever 
he  be)  it  is  reason  you  have  an  account  of  him.  The  wretch  (yet  your  wretch) 
though  with  languishing  steps  runs  fast  to  his  grave;  and  will  you  suffer  a 
temple  (how  poorly  built  soever,  but  yet  a  temple  of  your  deity)  to  be  rased  1 
But  he  dieth  :  it  is  most  true,  he  dieth  :  and  he  in  whom  you  live,  to  obey  you, 
dieth.  Whereof  though  he  plain,  he  doth  not  complain  :  for  it  is  a  harm,  but 
no  wrong,  which  he  hath  received.  He  dies,  because  in  woeful  language  all 
his  senses  tell  him,  that  such  is  your  pleasure :  for  if  you  will  not  that  he  live, 
alas,  alas,  what  foUoweth,  what  followeth  of  the  most  ruined  Dorus,  but  his 
end  1  End,  then,  evil  destined  Dorus,  end ;  and  end,  thou  woeful  letter,  end  ; 
for  it  sufficeth  her  wisdom  to  know,  that  her  heavenly  will  shall  be  accom- 
plished."— Lib.  ii.,  p.  117. 

This  style  relishes  neither  of  the  lover  nor  the  poet.  Nine- 
tenths  of  the  work  are  written  in  this  manner.  It  is  in  the  very 
manner  of  those  books  of  gallantry  and  chivalry,  which,  with 
the  labyrinths  of  their  style,  and  "  the  reason  of  their  unreasona- 
bleness,"  turned  the  fine  intellects  of  the  Knight  of  La  Mancha. 
In  a  word  (and  not  to  speak  it  profanely),  the  Arcadia  is  a  riddle, 
a  rebus,  an  acrostic  in  folio :  it  contains  about  4,000  far-fetched 
similes,  and  6,000  impracticable  dilemmas;  about  10,000  reasons 
for  doing  nothing  at  all,  and  as  many  more  against  it ;  number- 
less alliterations,  puns,  questions  and  commands,  and  other  figures 
of  rhetoric ;  about  a  score  good  passages  that  one  may  turn  to 
with  pleasure,  and  the  most  involved,  irksome,  improgressive,  and 
heteroclite  subject  that  ever  was  chosen  to  exercise  the  pen  or 
patience  of  man.  It  no  longer  adorns  the  toilette  or  lies  upon 
the  pillow  of  Maids  of  Honour  and  Peeresses  in  their  own  right 
(the  Pamelas  and  Philocleas  of  a  later  age),  but  remains  upon 
the  shelves  of  the  libraries  of  the  curious  in  long  works  and 
great  names,  a  monument  to  show  that  the  author  was  one  of  the 
ablest  men  and  worst  writers  of  the  asre  of  Elizabeth. 

His  Sonnets,  inlaid  in  the  Arcadia,  are  jejune,  far-fetched  and 


ON  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS,  ETC,  173 

frigid.  I  shall  select  only  one  that  has  been  much  commended. 
It  is  *  To  the  Highway,  where  his  Mistress  had  passed,'  a  strange 
subject,  but  not  unsuitable  to  the  author's  genius. 

'•  Highway,  since  you  my  chief  Parnassus  be, 
And  that  my  Muse  (to  some  eai-s  not  unsweet) 
Tempers  her  words  to  trampling  horses'  feet 
More  oft  than  to  a  chamber  melody  ; 
Now  blessed  you  bear  onward  blessed  me 
To  her,  where  I  my  heart  safe  left  shall  meet; 
My  Muse,  and  I  must  you  of  duty  greet 
With  thanks  and  wishes,  wishing  thankfully. 
Be  you  still  fair,  honoured  by  public  heed, 
By  no  encroachment  wrong'd,  nor  time  forgot: 
Nor  blamed  for  blood,  nor  shamed  for  sinful  deed ; 
And  that  you  know,  I  envy  you  no  lot 
Of  highest  wish,  I  wish  you  so  much  bliss, 
Hundreds  of  years  you  Stella's  feet  may  kiss." 

The  answer  of  the  Highway  has  not  been  preserved,  but  the 
sincerity  of  this  appeal  must  no  doubt  have  moved  the  stocks 
and  stones  to  rise  and  sympathize.  His  '  Defence  of  Poesy'  is 
his  most  readable  performance  ;  there  he  is  quite  at  home,  in  a 
sort  of  special  pleader's  office,  where  his  ingenuity,  scholastic 
subtlety,  and  tenaciousness  in  argument  stand  him  in  good  stead  ; 
and  he  brings  off  poetry  with  flying  colours ;  for  he  was  a  man 
of  wit,  of  sense,  and  learning,  though  not  a  poet  of  true  taste  or 
unsophisticated  genius. 


174  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 


LECTURE  VII. 

Character  of  Lord  Bacon's  Works — compared  as  to  style  with  Sir  Thomas 
Brown  and  Jeremy  Taylor, 

Lord  Bacon  has  been  called  (and  justly)  one  of  the  wisest  of 
mankind.  The  word  wisdom  characterizes  him  more  than  any 
other.  It  was  not  that  he  did  so  much  himself  to  advance  the 
knowledge  of  man  or  nature,  as  that  he  saw  what  others  had 
done  to  advance  it,  and  what  was  still  wanting  to  its- full  accom- 
plishment. He  stood  upon  the  high  'vantage  ground  of  genius 
and  learning ;  and  traced,  "  as  in  a  map  the  voyager  his  course,'^ 
the  long  devious  march  of  human  intellect,  its  elevations  and  de- 
pressions, its  windings  and  its  errors.  He  had  a  "  large  discourse 
of  reason,  looking  before  and  after."  He  had  made  an  exact 
and  extensive  survey  of  human  acquirements  :  he  took  the  gauge 
and  metre,  the  depths  and  soundings  of  human  capacity.  He 
was  master  of  the  comparative  anatomy  of  the  mind  of  man,  of 
the  balance  of  power  among  the  different  faculties.  He  had 
thoroughly  investigated  and  carefully  registered  the  steps  and 
processes  of  his  own  thoughts,  with  their  irregularities  and  fail- 
ures, their  liabilities  to  wrong  conclusions,  either  from  the  diffi- 
culties  of  the  subject,  or  from  moral  causes,  from  prejudice, 
indolence,  vanity,  from  conscious  strength  or  weakness ;  and  he 
applied  this  self-knowledge  on  a  miglity  scale  to  the  general 
advances  or  retrograde  movements  of  the  aggregate  intellect  of 
the  world.  He  knew  well  what  the  goal  and  crown  of  moral 
and  intellectual  power  was,  how  far  men  had  fallen  short  of  it, 
and  how  they  came  to  miss  it.  He  had  an  instantaneous  percep- 
tion of  the  quantity  of  truth  or  good  in  any  given  system  ;  and 
of  the  analogy  of  any  given  result  or  principle  to  others  of  the 
same  kind  scattered  through  nature  or  history.  His  observations 
take  in  a  larger  range,  have  more  profundity  from  the  fineness 


CHARACTER  OF  LORD  BACON'S  WORKS.  175 


of  his  tact,  and  more  comprehension  from  the  extent  of  his 
knowledge,  along  the  line  of  which  his  imagination  ran  with 
equal  celerity  and  certainty,  than  any  other  person's  whose 
writings  I  know.  He  however  seized  upon  these  results,  rather 
by  intuition  than  by  inference  :  he  knew  them  in  their  mixed 
modes  and  combined  effects,  rather  than  by  abstraction  or  ana- 
lysis, as  he  explains  them  to  others,  not  by  resolving  them  into 
their  component  parts  and  elementary  principles,  so  much  as  by 
illustrations  drawn  from  other  things  operating  in  like  manner, 
and  producing  similar  results ;  or,  as  he  himself  has  finely  ex- 
pressed it,  "  by  the  same  footsteps  of  nature  treading  or  printing 
upon  several  subjects  or  matters."  He  had  great  sagacity  of 
observation,  solidity  of  judgment  and  scope  of  fancy ;  in  this 
resembling  Plato  and  Burke,  that  he  was  a  popular  philosopher 
and  philosophical  declaimer.  His  writings  have  the  gravity  of 
prose  with  the  fervour  and  vividness  of  poetry.  His  sayings 
have  the  effect  of  axioms,  and  are  at  once  striking  and  self-evi- 
dent. He  views  objects  from  the  greatest  height,  and  his  re- 
flections acquire  a  sublimity  in  proportion  to  their  profundity,  as 
in  deep  wells  of  water  we  see  the  sparkling  of  the  highest  fixed 
stars.  The  chain  of  thought  reaches  to  the  centre,  and  ascends 
the  brightest  heaven  of  invention.  Reason  in  him  works  like  an 
instinct ;  and  his  slightest  suggestions  carry  the  force  of  convic- 
tion. His  opinions  are  judicial.  His  induction  of  particulars  is 
alike  wonderful  for  learning  and  vivacity,  for  curiosity  and  dignity, 
and  an  all-prevading  intellect  binds  the  whole  together  in  a 
graceful  and  pleasing  form.  His  style  is  equally  sharp  and  sweet, 
flowing  and  pithy,  condensed  and  expansive,  expressing  volumes 
in  a  sentence,  or  amplifying  a  single  thought  into  pages  of  rich, 
glowing,  and  delightful  eloquence.  He  had  great  liberality  from 
seeing  the  various  aspects  of  things  (there  was  nothing  bigotted, 
or  intolerant,  or  exclusive  about  him),  and  yet  he  had  firmness 
and  decision  from  feeling  their  weight  and  consequences.  His 
character  was  then  an  amazin^:  insin-ht  into  the  limits  of  human 
knowledge  and  acquaintance  with  the  landmarks  of  human  in- 
tellect, so  as  to  trace  its  past  history  or  point  out  the  path  to  future 
inquirers,  but  when  he  quits  the  ground  of  contemplation  of  what 
others  have  done  or  left  undone  to  project  himself  into  future 


176  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 


discoveries,  lie  becomes  quaint  and  fantastic,  instead  of  original. 
His  strength  was  in  reflection,  not  in  production ;  he  was  the 
surveyor,  not  the  builder  of  the  fabric  of  science.  He  had  not 
strictly  the  constructive  faculty.  He  was  the  principal  pioneer 
in  the  march  of  modern  philosophy,  and  has  completed  the  edu- 
cation and  discipline  of  the  mind  for  the  acquisition  of  truth,  by 
explaining  all  the  impediments  or  furtherances  that  can  be  applied 
to  it  or  cleared  out  of  its  way.  In  a  word,  he  was  one  of  the 
greatest  men  this  country  has  to  boast,  and  his  name  deserves 
to  stand,  where  it  is  generally  placed,  by  the  side  of  those  of  our 
greatest  writers,  whether  we  consider  the  variety,  the  strength, 
or  the  splendour  of  his  faculties,  for  ornament  or  use. 

His  '  Advancement  of  Learning'  is  his  greatest  work  ;  and 
next  to  that  I  like  the  'Essays;'  for  the  'Novum  Organum'  is 
more  laboured  and  less  effectual  than  it  might  be.  I  shall  give 
a  few  instances  from  the  first  of  these  chiefly,  to  explain  the  scope 
of  the  above  remarks. 

'  The  Advancement  of  Learning'  is  dedicated  to  James  L,  and 
he  there  observes,  with  a  mixture  of  truth  and  flattery,  which 
looks  very  much  like  a  bold  irony — 

"  I  am  well  assured  that  this  which  I  shall  say  is  no  amplification  at  all, 
but  a  positive  and  measured  truth  :  which  is,  that  there  hath  not  been,  since 
Christ's  time,  any  king  or  temporal  monarch  which  hath  been  so  learned  in 
all  literature  and  erudition,  divine  and  human  (as  your  majesty).  For  let  a 
man  seriously  and  diligendy  revolve  and  penise  the  succession  of  the  Empe- 
rors of  Rome,  of  which  Caesar  the  Dictator,  who  lived  some  years  before 
Christ,  and  Marcus  Antoninus,  were  the  best-learned;  and  so  descend  to  the 
Emperors  of  Grecia,  or  of  the  West,  and  then  to  the  lines  of  France,  Spain, 
England,  Scotland,  and  the  rest,  and  he  shall  find  this  judgment  is  truly 
made.  For  it  seemeth  much  in  a  king,  if  by  the  compendious  extractions  of 
other  men's  wits  and  labour,  he  can  take  hold  of  any  superficial  ornaments 
and  shows  of  learning,  or  if  he  countenance  and  prefer  learning  and  learned 
men ;  but  to  drink  indeed  of  the  true  fountain  of  learning,  nay,  to  have  such 
a  fountain  of  learning  in  himself,  in  a  king,  and  in  a  king  born,  is  almost  a 
miracle." 

To  any  one  less  wrapped  up  in  self-sufficiency  than  James, 
the  rule  would  have  been  more  staggering  than  the  exception 
could  have  been  gratifying.  But  Bacon  was  a  sort  of  prose- 
laureate  to  the  reigning  prince,  and  his  loyalty  had  never  been 
suspected. 


CHARACTER  OF  LORD  BACON'S  WORKS.  177 

In  recommending  learned  men  as  fit  counsellors  in  a  state,  he 
thus  points  out  the  deficiencies  of  the  mere  empiric  or  man  of 
business,  in  not  being  provided  against  uncommon  emergencies. 
— "  Neither,"  he  says,  "  can  the  experience  of  one  man's  life 
furnish  examples  and  precedents  for  the  events  of  another  man's 
life.  For,  as  it  happeneth  sometimes,  that  the  grand-child,  or 
other  descendant,  resembleth  the  ancestor  more  than  the  son ;  so 
many  times  occurrences  of  present  times  may  sort  better  with 
ancient  examples,  than  with  those  of  the  latter  or  immediate 
times ;  and  lastly,  the  wit  of  one  man  can  no  more  countervail 
learning,  than  one  man's  means  can  hold  way  with  a  common 
purse." — This  is  finely  put.  It  might  be  added,  on  the  other 
hand,  by  way  of  caution,  that  neither  can  the  wit  or  opinion  of 
one  learned  man  set  itself  up,  as  it  sometimes  does,  in  opposition 
to  the  common  sense  or  experience  of  mankind. 

When  he  goes  on  to  vindicate  the  superiority  of  the  scholar 
over  the  mere  politician  in  disinterestedness  and  inflexibility  of 
principle,  by  arguing  ingeniously  enough — "  The  corrupter  sort 
of  mere  politiques,  that  have  not  their  thoughts  established  by 
learning  in  the  love  and  apprehension  of  duty,  nor  never  look 
abroad  into  universality,  do  refer  all  things  to  themselves  and 
thrust  themselves  into  the  centre  of  the  world,  as  if  all  times 
should  meet  in  them  and  their  fortunes,  never  caring,  in  all  tem- 
pests, what  becomes  of  the  ship  of  estates,  so  they  may  save 
themselves  in  the  cock-boat  of  their  own  fortune ;  whereas  men 
that  feel  the  weight  of  duty,  and  know  the  limits  of  self-love,  use 
to  make  good  their  places  and  duties,  though  with  peril." — I  can 
only  wish  that  the  practice  were  as  constant  as  the  theory  is 
plausible,  or  that  the  time  gave  evidence  of  as  much  stability 
and  sincerity  of  principle  in  well-educated  minds  as  it  does  of 
versatility  and  gross  egotism  in  self-taught  men.  I  need  not 
give  the  instances,  "  they  will  receive"  (in  our  author's  phrase) 
"  an  open  allowance:"  but  I  am  afraid  that  neither  habits  of  ab- 
straction nor  the  want  of  them  will  entirely  exempt  men  from  a 
bias  to  their  own  interest ;  that  it  is  neither  learning  nor  ignorance 
that  thrusts  us  into  the  centre  of  our  own  little  world,  but  that 
it  is  nature  that  has  put  man  theje  ! 

His  character  of  the  school-men%is  perhaps  the  finest  philoso- 


178  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETFI. 

phical  sketch  that  was  ever  drawn.  After  observing  that  there 
are  "  two  marks  and  badges  of  suspected  and  falsified  science ; 
the  one,  the  novelty  and  strangeness  of  terms,  the  other  the  strict- 
ness of  positions,  which  of  necessity  doth  induce  oppositions,  and 
so  questions  and  altercations" — he  proceeds — "  Surely  like  as 
many  substances  in  nature  which  are  solid,  do  putrefy  and  cor- 
rupt into  worms  ;  so  it  is  the  property  of  good  and  sound  know- 
ledge  to  putrefy  and  dissolve  into  a  number  of  subtle,  idle,  un- 
wholesome, and  (as  I  may  term  them)  vermiculate  questions  ; 
which  have,  indeed,  a  kind  of  quickness  and  life  of  spirit,  but  no 
soundness  of  matter  or  goodness  of  quality.  This  kind  of  de- 
generate learning  did  chiefly  reign  amongst  the  school-men,  who, 
having  sharp  and  strong  wits,  and  abundance  of  leisure,  and 
small  variety  of  reading  ;  but  their  wiis  being  shut  up  in  the 
cells  of  a  few  authors  (chiefly  Aristotle  their  dictator)  as 
their  persons  were  shut  up  in  the  cells  of  monasteries 
and  colleges,  and  knowing  little  history,  either  of  nature  or  time, 
did  out  of  no  great  quantity  of  matter,  and  infinite  agitation  of 
wit,  spin  out  unto  us  those  laborious  webs  of  learning  which  are 
extant  in  their  books.  For  the  wit  and  mind  of  man,  if  it  work 
upon  matter,  which  is  the  contemplation  of  the  creatures  of  God, 
workelh  according  to  the  stulf,  and  is  limited  thereby  ;  but  if  it 
work  upon  itself,  as  the  spider  worketh  his  web,  then  it  is  end- 
less, and  brings  forth  indeed  cobwebs  of  learning,  admirable  for 
the  fineness  of  thread  and  work,  but  of  no  substance  or  profit." 
And  a  little  further  on,  he  adds — "  Notwithstanding,  certain  it 
is,  that  if  those  school-men,  to  their  great  thirst  of  truth  and  un- 
wearied travel  of  wit,  had  joined  variety  and  universality  of 
reading  and  contemplation,  tiiey  had  proved  excellent  lights  to 
the  great  advancement  of  all  learning  and  knowledge ;  but,  as 
they  are,  they  are  great  undertakers  indeed,  and  fierce  with 
dark  keeping.  But,  as  in  the  inquiry  of  the  divine  truth,  their 
pride  inclined  to  leave  the  oracle  of  God's  word,  and  to  varnish 
in  the  mixture  of  their  own  inventions  ;  so  in  the  inquisition  of 
nature,  they  ever  left  the  oracle  of  God's  works,  and  adored  the 
deceiving  and  deformed  images  which  the  unequal  mirror  of 
their  own  minds,  or  a  few  received  authors  or  principles  did  re- 
present unto  them." 


CHARACTER  OF  LORD  BACON'S  WORKS.  179 

One  of  his  acutest  (I  might  have  said  profoundest)  remarks 
relates  to  the  near  connection  between  deceiving  and  being  de- 
ceived. Volumes  might  be  written  in  explanation  of  it.  "  This 
vice,  therefore,"  he  says,  "  brancheth  itself  into  two  sorts ;  de- 
light in  deceiving,  an  aptness  to  be  deceived,  imposture  and  cre- 
dulity ;  which,  although  they  appear  to  be  of  a  divei-se  nature, 
the  one  seeming  to  proceed  of  cunning,  and  the  other  of  sim- 
plicity,  yet  certainly  they  do  for  the  most  part  concur.  For,  as 
the  verse  noteth,  Percontatorem  fiigito,  nam  garrulus  idem  est ; 
an  inquisitive  man  is  a  prattler :  so  upon  the  like  reason,  a  cre- 
dulous man  is  a  deceiver  ;  as  we  see  it  in  fame,  that  he  that  will 
easily  believe  rumours  will  as  easily  augment  rumours,  and  add 
somewhat  to  them  of  his  own,  which  Tacitus  wisely  noteth,  when 
he  saith  Fingunt  simul  creduntque,  so  great  an  affinity  hath  fiction 
and  belief." 

I  proceed  to  his  account  of  the  causes  of  error,  and  directions 
for  the  conduct  of  the  understanding,  which  are  admirable  both 
for  their  speculative  ingenuity  and  practical  use  : 

"  The  first  of  these,"  says  Lord  Bacon,  "  is  the  extreme  affection  of  two 
anxieties :  the  one  antiquity,  the  other  novelty,  wherein  it  seemeth  the 
children  of  time  do  take  after  the  nature  and  malice  of  the  father.  For  as  he 
devoureth  his  children,  so  one  of  them  seeketh  to  devour  and  suppress  the 
other  5  while  antiquity  envieth  there  should  be  new  additions,  and  novelty  can- 
not be  content  to  add,  but  it  must  deface.  •  Surely,  the  advice  of  the  prophet 
is  the  true  direction  in  this  respect,  State  super  vias  antiquas^  el  videte  quanam 
sit  via  recta  et  bona.,  et  ambulate  in  ea.  Antiquity  deserveth  that  reverence, 
that  men  should  make  a  stand  thereupon,  and  discover  what  is  the  best  way, 
but  when  the  discoveiy  is  well  taken,  then  to  take  progression.  And  to  speak 
truly,"  he  adds,  "  Antiquitas  seculi  juve?itvs  mundi.  These  times  are  the  ancient 
times  when  the  world  is  ancient ;  and  not  those  which  we  count  ancient  or- 
dine  relrogradoj  by  a  computation  backwards  from  ourselves. 

"  Another  error,  induced  by  the  former,  is  a  distrust  that  anything  should 
be  now  to  be  found  out  which  the  world  should  have  missed  and  passed  over 
so  long  time,  as  if  the  same  objection  were  to  be  made  to  time  that  Lucian 
makes  to  Jupiter  and  other  the  Heathen  Grods,  of  which  he  wondereth  that 
they  begot  so  many  children  in  old  age,  and  begot  none  in  his  time,  and  asketh 
whether  they  were  become  septuagenary,  or  whether  the  law  Papia  made 
against  old  men's  marriages  had  restrained  them.  So  it  seemeth  men  doubt, 
lest  time  was  become  past  children  and  generation;  wherein,  contrary- wise, 
we  see  commonly  the  levity  and  unconstancy  of  men's  judgments,  which,  till 
a  matter  be  done,  wonder  that  it  can  be  done,  and  as  soon  as  it  is  done  wonder 
again  that  it  was  done  no  sooner,  as  we  see  in  the  expedition  of  Alexander  into 


180  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

Asia,  which  at  first  was  prejudged  as  a  vast  and  impossible  enterprise,  and 
yet  afterwards  it  pleaseth  Livy  to  make  no  more  of  it  than  this,  nil  aliud  quavi 
bene  au&ns  vana  coiiteynnere.  And  the  same  happened  to  Columbus  in  his 
western  navigation.  But  in  intellectual  matters  it  is  much  more  common;  as 
may  be  seen  in  most  of  the  propositions  in  Euclid,  which  till  they  be  demon- 
strate, they  seem  strange  to  our  assent,  but  being  demonstrate,  our  mind  ac- 
cepteth  of  them  by  a  kind  of  relation  (as  the  lawyers  speak.)  as  if  we  had 
known  them  before. 

"  Another  is  an  impatience  of  doubt  and  haste  to  assertion  without  due  and 
mature  suspension  of  judgment.  For  the  two  ways  of  contemplation  are 
not  unlike  the  two  ways  of  action,  commonly  spoken  of  by  the  ancients.  The 
one  plain  and  smooth  in  tlie  beginning,  and  in  the  end  impassable;  the  other 
rough  and  troublesome  in  the  entrance,  but,  after  a  while,  fair  and  even  ;  so  it 
is  in  contemplation,  if  a  man  will  begin  with  certainties,  he  shall  end  in 
doubts  ;  but  if  he  will  be  content  to  begin  with  doubts,  he  shall  end  in  certain- 
ties. 

"Another  error  is  in  the  manner  of  the  tradition  or  delivery  of  knowledge, 
which  is  for  the  most  part  magistral  and  peremptoiy,  and  not  ingenuous  and 
faithful ;  in  a  sort,  as  may  be  soonest  believed,  and  not  easiliest  examined. 
It  is  true,  that  in  compendious  treatises  for  practice,  that  form  is  not  to  be  dis- 
allowed. Bvit  in  the  true  handling  of  knowledge,  men  ought  not  to  fall  either 
on  the  one  side  into  the  vein  of  Velleius  the  Epicurean  :  nil  tarn  mdnens  quam 
7i€  dubilare  aliqua  de  re  videretur ;  nor,  on  the  other  side,  into  Socrates  his 
ironical  doubting  of  all  things,  but  to  propound  things  sincerely,  with  more 
or  less  asseveration  j  as  they  stand  in  a  man's  own  judgment,  proved  more  or 
less." 

Lord  Bacon  in  this  part  declares,  "  that  it  is  not  his  purpose 
to  enter  into  a  laudative  of  learning  or  to  make  a  hymn  to  the 
Muses,"  yet  he  has  gone  near  to  do  this  in  the  following  obser- 
vations on  the  dignity  of  knowledge.  He  says,  after  speaking 
of  rulers  and  conquerors  : — 

"  But  the  commandment  of  knowledge  is  yet  higher  than  the  command- 
ment over  the  will :  for  it  is  a  commandment  over  the  reason,  belief,  and  un- 
derstanding of  man,  which  is  the  highest  part  of  the  mind,  and  giveth  law  to 
the  will  itself.  For  there  is  no  power  on  earth  which  setteth  a  throne  or  chair 
of  estate  in  the  spirits  and  souls  of  men,  and  in  their  cogitations,  imaginations, 
opinions,  and  beliefs,  but  knowledge  and  learning.  And  therefore  we  see  the 
detestable  and  extreme  pleasure  that  arch-heretics  and  false  prophets  and  im- 
postors are  transported  with,  when  they  once  find  in  themselves  that  they  have 
a  superiority  in  the  faith  and  conscience  of  men ;  so  great,  as  if  they  have 
once  tasted  of  it,  it  is  seldom  seen  that  any  torture  or  persecution  can  make 
them  relinquish  or  abandon  it.  But  as  this  is  that  which  the  author  of  the 
Revelations  calls  the  depth  or  profoundness  of  Satan;  so  by  argument  of  con- 
traries, the  just  and  lawful  sovereignty  over  men's  understanding,  by  force  of 


CHARACTER  OF  LORD  BACON^S  WORKS.  181 

truth  rightly  interpreted,  is  that  which  approacheth  nearest  to  the  simihtude 

of  the    Divine  i-ule Let    us    conclude  with    tlie   dignity    and 

excellency  of  knowledge  and  learning  iii  tliat  whereunto  man's  nature 
doth  most  aspire,  which  is  immortality  or  continuance  :  for  to  this  tend- 
eth  generation,  and  raising  of  houses  and  families ;  to  tliis  tendeth  build- 
ings, foundations,  and  monuments;  to  this  tendeth  the  desire  of  memory, 
fame,  and  celebration,  and  in  effect  the  strength  of  all  other  humane  desires  ; 
we  see  then  how  far  the  monuments  of  wit  and  learning  are  more  durable  than 
the  monuments  of  power  or  of  the  hands.  For,  have  not  the  verses  of  Homer 
continued  twenty-five  hundred  years  and  more,  without  the  loss  of  a  syllable 
or  letter  ;  during  which  time  infinite  palaces,  temples,  castles,  cities,  have  been 
decayed  and  demolished  ]  It  is  not  possible  to  have  the  true  pictures  or  statues 
of  Cyrus,  Alexander,  Coesar,  no,  nor  of  the  kings  or  great  personages  of 
ijiuch  later  years.  For  the  originals  cannot  last:  and  the  copies  cannot  but 
lose  of  the  life  and  truth.  But  the  images  of  men's  wits  and  knowledge  re- 
main in  books,  exempted  from  the  wrong  of  time,  and  capable  of  perpetual 
renovation.  Neither  are  they  fitly  to  be  called  images,  because  they  generate 
still,  and  cast  their  seeds  in  the  minds  of  others,  provoking  and  causing  infi- 
nite actions  and  opinions  in  succeeding  ages.  So  that,  if  the  invention  of  the 
ship  was  thought  so  noble,  which  carrieth  riches  and  commodities  from  place 
to  place,  and  consociateth  the  most  remote  regions  in  participation  of  their 
fruits,  how  much  more  are  letters  to  be  magnified,  which,  as  ships,  pass  through 
the  vast  seas  of  time,  and  make  ages  so  distant  to  participate  of  the  wisdom, 
illuminations,  and  inventions  the  one  of  the  other'?" 

Passages  of  equal  force  and  beauty  might  be  quoted  from  al- 
most every  page  of  this  work  and  of  the  Essays. 

Sir  Thomas  Brown  and  Bishop  Taylor  were  two  prose-writers 
in  the  succeeding  age,  who,  for  pomp  and  copiousness  of  style, 
might  be  compared  to  Lord  Bacon.  In  all  other  respects  they 
were  opposed  to  him  and  to  one  another. — As  Bacon  seemed  to 
bend  all  his  thoughts  to  the  practice  of  life,  and  to  bring  home 
the  light  of  science  to  "  the  bosoms  and  businesses  of  men,"  Sir 
Thomas  Brown  seemed  to  be  of  opinion  that  the  only  business  of 
life  was  to  think,  and  that  the  proper  object  of  speculation  was, 
by  darkening  knowledge,  to  breed  more  speculation,  and  "  find 
no  end  in  wandering  mazes  lost."  He  chose  the  incomprehen- 
sible and  impracticable  as  almost  the  only  subjects  fit  for  a  lofty 
and  lasting  contemplation,  or  for  the  exercise  of  a  solid  faith. 
He  cried  out  for  an  oh  altiiudo  beyond  the  heights  of  revelation, 
and  posed  himself  with  apocryphal  mysteries,  as  the  pastime  of 
Jiis  leisure  hours.     He  pushes  a  question  to  the  utmost  verge  of 


182  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

conjecture,  that  he  may  repose  on  the  certainty  of  doubt ;  and 
he  removes  an  object  to  the  greatest  distance  from  him,  that'  he 
may  take  a  high  and  abstracted  interest  in  it,  consider  it  in  its 
relation  to  the  sum  of  things,  not  to  himself,  and  bewilder  his 
understanding  in  the  universality  of  its  nature,  and  the  inscru- 
tableness  of  its  origin.  His  is  the  sublime  of  indifference ;  a 
passion  for  the  abstruse  and  imaginary.  He  turns  the  world 
round  for  his  amusement,  as  if  it  was  a  globe  of  paste-board. 
He  looks  down  on  sublunary  affairs  as  if  he  had  taken  his  sta- 
tion in  one  of  the  planets.  The  Antipodes  are  next-door  neigh- 
bours to  him,  and  Doomsday  is  not  far  off.  With  a  thought  be 
embraces  both  the  poles ;  the  march  of  his  pen  is  over  the  great 
divisions  of  geography  and  chronology.  Nothing  touches  him 
nearer  than  humanity.  He  feels  that  he  is  mortal  only  in  the 
decay  of  nature,  and  the  dust  of  long- forgotten  tombs.  The 
finite  is  lost  in  the  infinite.  The  orbits  of  the  heavenly  bodies 
or  the  history  of  empires  are  to  him  but  a  point  in  time  or  a 
speck  in  the  universe.  The  great  Platonic  year  revolves  in  one 
of  his  periods.  Nature  is  too  little  for  the  grasp  of  his  style. 
He  scoops  an  antithesis  out  of  fabulous  antiquity,  and  rakes  up 
an  epithet  from  the  sweepings  of  Chaos.  It  is  as  if  his  books 
had  dropt  from  tlie  clouds,  or  as  if  Friar  Bacon's  head  could 
speak.  He  stands  on  the  edge  of  the  world  of  sense  and  reason, 
and  gains  a  vertigo  by  looking  down  on  impossibilities  and 
chimeras.  Or  he  busies  himself  with  the  mysteries  of  the 
Cabala,  or  the  enclosed  secrets  of  the  heavenly  quincunxes,  as 
children  are  amused  with  tales  of  the  nursery.  The  passion  of 
curiosity  (the  only  passion  of  childhood)  had  in  him  survived  to 
old  age,  and  had  superannuated  his  other  faculties.  He  moral- 
izes and  grows  pathetic  on  a  mere  idle  fancy  of  his  own,  as  i> 
thouo-ht  and  being  were  the  same,  or  as  if  "  all  this  world  were 
one  glorious  lie."  For  a  thing  to  have  ever  had  a  name  is  suf- 
ficient  warrant  to  entitle  it  to  respectful  belief,  and  to  invest  it 
with  all  the  rights  of  a  subject  and  its  predicates.  He  is  super- 
stitious, but  not  bigoted  ;  to  him  all  religions  are  much  the  same, 
and  he  says  that  he  should  not  like  to  have  lived  in  the  time  of 
Christ  and  the  Apostles,  as  it  would  have  rendered  his  faith  toa 
gross  and  palpable.     His  gossiping  egotism  and  personal  char- 


CHARACTER  OF  SIR  T.  BROWN  AS  A  WRITER,        183 

acter  have  been  preferred  unjustly  to  Montaigne's.  He  had  no 
personal  character  at  all  but  the  peculiarity  of  resolving  all  the 
other  elements  of  his  being  into  thought,  and  of  trying  experi- 
ments on  his  own  nature  in  an  exhausted  receiver  of  idle  and 
unsatisfactory  speculations.  All  that  he  "  differences  himself 
by,"  to  use  his  own  expression,  is  this  moral  and  physical  indif- 
ference. In  describing  himself  he  deals  only  in  negatives.  He 
says  he  has  neither  prejudices  nor  antipathies  to  manners,  habits, 
climate,  food,  to  persons  or  things ;  they  were  alike  acceptable 
to  him  as  they  afforded  new  topics  for  reflection  ;  and  he  even 
professes  that  he  could  never  bring  himself  heartily  to  hate  the 
devil.  He  owns  in  one  place  of  the  Religio  Medici,  that  ''he 
could  be  content  if  the  species  were  continued  like  trees,"  and 
yet  he  declares  that  this  was  from  no  aversion  to  love,  or  beauty, 
or  harmony  ;  and  the  reasons  he  assigns  to  prove  the  orthodoxy 
of  his  taste  in  this  respect  is,  that  he  Vvas  an  admirer  of  the 
music  of  the  spheres !  He  tells  us  that  he  often  composed  a 
comedy  in  his  sleep.  It  would  be  curious  to  know  the  subject 
or  the  texture  of  the  plot.  It  must  have  been  something  like 
Nabbes's  "  jMask  of  Microcosmus,'  of  which  the  dramatis  per- 
sona have  been  already  given ;  or  else  a  misnomer,  like  Dante's 
'  Divine  Comedy  of  Heaven,  Hell,  and  Purgatory.'  He  was 
twice  married,  as  if  to  show  his  disregard  even  for  his  own 
theory :  and  he  had  a  hand  in  the  execution  of  some  old  women 
for  witchcraft,  I  suppose  to  keep  a  decorum  in  absurdity,  and  to 
induljxe  an  agreeable  horror  at  his  own  fantastical  reveries  on 
the  occasion.  In  a  word,  his  mind  seemed  to  converse  chiefly 
with  the  intelligible  forms,  the  spectral  apparitions  of  things  ;  he 
delighted  in  the  preternatural  and  visionary,  and  he  only  existed 
at  the  circumference  of  his  nature.  He  had  the  most  intense 
consciousness  of  contradictions  and  non-entities,  and  he  decks 
them  out  in  the  pride  and  pedantry  of  words,  as  if  they  were 
the  attire  of  his  proper  person :  the  categories  hang  about  his 
neck  like  the  gold  chain  of  knighthood,  and  he  "  walks  gowned" 
in  the  intricate  folds  and  swelling  drapery  of  dark  sayings  and 
impenetrable  riddles  ! 

I  will  give  one  gorgeous  passage  to  illustrate  all  this,  from 
his  '  Urn-Burial,  or  Hydriotaphia.'     He  digs  up  the  urns  of 


184  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

some  ancient  Druids  with  the  same  ceremony  and  devotion  as 
if  they  had  contained  the  hallowed  relics  of  his  dearest  friends ; 
and  certainly  we  feel  (as  it  has  been  said)  the  freshness  of  the 
mould,  and  the  breath  of  mortality,  in  the  spirit  and  force  of  his 
style.  The  conclusion  of  this  singular  and  unparallelled  per- 
formance  is  as  follows  : 

"  What  song  the  Syrens  sang,  or  what  name'  Achilles  assumed  when  he 
hid  himself  among  women,  though  puzzling  questions,  are  not  beyond  all 
conjecture.  What  time  the  persons  of  these  Ossuaries  entered  the  famous 
nations  of  the  dead,  and  slept  with  princes  and  counsellors,  might  admit  a 
wide  solution.  But  who  were  the  proprietors  of  these  bones,  or  what  bodies 
these  ashes  made  up,  were  a  question  above  antiquarianism  :  not  to  be  resolved 
by  man,  nor  easily  perliaps  by  spirits,  except  we  consult  the  provincial  guar- 
dians, or  tutelary  observators.  Had  they  made  as  good  provision  for  their 
names,  as  they  have  done  for  their  reliques,  they  had  not  so  grossly  erred  in 
the  art  of  perpetuation.  But  to  subsist  in  bones,  and  be  but  pyramidally  ex- 
tant, is  a  fallacy  in  duration.  Vain  ashes,  which  in  the  oblivion  of  names, 
persons,  times,  and  sexes,  have  found  unto  themselves  a  fruitless  continua- 
tion, and  only  arise  unto  late  posterity,  as  emblems  of  mortal  vanities;  anti- 
dotes against  pride,  vain-glory,  and  madding  vices.  Pagan  vain-glories,  which 
thought  the  world  mi^ht  last  for  ever,  had  encouragement  for  ambition,  and 
finding  no  Atropos  unto  the  immoitaliiy  of  tlieir  names,  were  never  dampt 
with  the  necessity  of  oblivion.  Even  old  ambitions  had  the  advantage  of 
ours,  in  the  attempts  of  their  vain-glories,  who,  acting  early,  and  before  the 
probable  meridian  of  time,  have,  by  this  time,  found  great  accomplishment  of 
their  designs,  whereby  the  ancient  heroes  have  already  outlasted  their  monu- 
ments and  mechanical  preservations.  But  in  this  latter  scene  of  lime  we  can- 
not expect  such  mummies  unto  our  memories,  when  ambition  may  fear  the 
prophecy  of  Elias,  and  Charles  the  Fifth  can  never  hope  to  live  within  two 
Methuselahs  of  Hector. 

•'  And  therefore  restless  inquietude  for  the  diuturnity  of  our  memories  unto 
present  considerations,  seems  a  vanity  almost  out  of  date,  and  superannuated 
pieces  of  folly.  We  cannot  hope  to  live  so  long  in  our  names  as  some  have 
done  in  their  persons :  one  face  of  Janus  holds  no  proportion  unto  the  other. 
'Tis  too  late  to  be  ambitious.  The  great  mutations  of  the  world  are  acted,  or 
time  maybe  too  short  for  our  designs.  To  extend  our  memories  by  monu- 
ments, whose  death  we  daily  pray  for,  and  whose  duration  we  cannot  hope, 
without  injui-y  to  our  expectations  in  the  advent  of  the  last  day,  were  a  con- 
tradiction to  our  beliefs.  We,  whose  generations  are  ordained  in  this  setting 
part  of  lime,  arc  providentially  taken  off  from  such  imaginations.  And  being 
necessitated  to  eye  the  remaining  particle  of  futurity,  are  naturally  consti- 
luted  unto  thoughts  of  the  next  world,  and  cannot  excusably  decline  the  consi- 
deration of  that  duration  which  makclh  pyramids  pillars  of  snow,  and  all 
that's  past  a  moment. 


CHARACTER  OF  SIR  T.  BROWN  AS  A  WRITER.        185 

"  Circles  and  right  lines  limit  and  close  all  bodies,  and  the  mortal  right- 
lined  circle  must  conclude  and  shut  up  all.  Tliere  is  no  antidote  against  the 
opium  of  time,  which  temporarily  considereth  all  things;  our  fathers  find  their 
graves  in  our  short  memories,  and  sadly  tell  us  how  we  may  be  buried  in  our 
survivors.  Grave- stones  tell  truth  scarce  forty  years  :  generations  pass  while 
some  trees  stand,  and  old  families  last  not  three  oaks.  To  be  read  by  bare  in- 
scriptions like  many  in  Gruter,  to  hope  for  eternity  by  enigmatical  epithets,  or 
first  letters  of  our  names,  to  be  studied  by  antiquaries,  who  we  were,  and  have 
new  names  given  us  like  many  of  tlie  mummies,  are  cold  consolations  unto 
the  students  of  perpetuity,  even  by  everlasting  languages. 

"  To  be  content  that  times  to  come  should  only  know  there  was  such  a 
man,  not  caring  whether  tliey  knew  more  of  him,  was  a  frigid  ambition  in 
Cardan  ;  disparaging  his  horoscopal  inclination  and  judgment  of  himself,  who 
cares  to  subsist  like  Hippocrates'  patients,  or  Achilles'  horses  in  Homer,  under 
naked  nominations  without  deserts  and  noble  acts,  which  are  the  balsam  of 
our  memories,  the  Entelechia  and  soul  of  our  subsistences.  To  be  nameless 
in  worthy  deeds  exceeds  an  iutlimous  histoiy.  The  Canaanitish  woman  lives 
more  happily  without  a  name,  than  Herodias  with  one.  And  who  had  not 
rather  have  been  the  good  thief,  than  Pilate  '? 

"But  the  iniquity  of  oblivion  blindly  scattereth  her  poppy,  and  deals  with 
the  memory  of  men  without  distinction  to  merit  of  perpetuity.  Who  can  but 
pity  the  founder  of  the  pyramids  1  Herostratus  lives  that  biwnt  the  temple 
of  Diana,  he  is  almost  lost  that  built  it;  time  hath  spared  the  epitaph  of 
Adrian's  horse,  confounded  that  of  himself.  In  vain  we  compute  our  felici- 
ties by  the  advantage  of  our  good  names,  since  bad  have  equal  durations  ;  and 
Thersites  is  like  to  live  as  long  as  Agamemnon,  without  the  favour  of  the 
everlasting  register.  Who  knows  whether  the  best  of  men  be  known  1  or 
whether  there  be  not  more  remarkable  persons  forgot  than  any  that  stand  re- 
membered in  the  known  account  of  time  1  the  first  man  had  been  as  unknown 
as  the  last,  and  Methuselah's  long  life  had  been  his  only  chronicle. 

"  Oblivion  is  not  to  be  hired  :  the  greater  part  must  be  content  to  be  as 
though  they,  had  not  been,  to  be  found  in  the  register  of  God,  not  in  tne  record 
of  man.  Twenty-seven  names  make  up  the  first  story,  and  the  recorded 
names  ever  since  contain  not  one  living  century.  The  number  of  the  dead 
long  exceedeth  all  that  shall  live.  The  night  of  time  far  surpasseth  the  day, 
and  who  knows  when  was  the  equinox  1  Every  hour  adds  unto  that  current 
arithmetic,  which  scarce  stands  one  moment.  And  since  death  must  be  the 
Lucina  of  life,  and  even  Pagans  could  doubt  whether  thus  to  live,  were  to 
die  ;  since  our  longest  sun  sets  at  right  descensions,  and  makes  but  winter 
arches,  and  therefore  it  cannot  be  long  before  we  lie  down  in  darkness,  and 
have  our  light  in  ashes  ;  since  the  brother  of  death  daily  haunts  us  with  dying 
mementos,  and  time,  that  grows  old  itself,  bids  us  hope  no  long  duration : 
diuturnity  is  a  dream  and  folly  of  expectation. 

"  Darkness  and  light  divide  the  course  of  time,  and  oblivion  shares  with 
memory  a  great  part  even  of  our  living  beings;  we  slightly  remember  our  fe- 
licities, and  the  smartest  strokes  of  aflliction  leave  but  short  smart  upon  us. 
13 


186  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

Sense  endureth  no  extremities,  and  sorrows  destroy  us  or  themselves.  To 
weep  into  stones  are  fables.  Afflictions  induce  callosities,  v/hich  are  slippery, 
or  fall  like  snow  upon  us,  which,  notwithstanding,  is  no  unhappy  stupidity. 
To  be  ignorant  of  evils  to  come,  and  forgetful  of  evils  past,  is  a  merciful  pro- 
vision in  nature,  whereby  we  digest  the  mixture  of  our  few  and  evil  days,  and 
our  delivered  senses  not  relapsing  into  cutting  reaiernbiances,  our  sorrows  are 
not  kept  raw  by  the  edge  of  repetitions.  A  great  part  of  antiquity  contented 
their  hopes  of  subsistency  with  a  transmigration  of  their  souls.  A  good  way 
to  continue  their  memories,  while  having  the  advantage  of  plural  successions, 
they  could  not  but  act  something  remarkable  in  such  a  v:u-iety  of  beings,  and 
■enjoying  the  fame  of  their  passed  selves,  make  accumulation  of  glory  unto 
their  last  durations.  Others,  rather  than  be  lost  in  the  uncomfortable  night  of 
nothing,  were  content  to  recede  into  the  common  being,  and  make  one  particle 
of  the  public  soul  of  all  things,  which  was  no  more  tluin  to  return  into  their 
unknown  and  divme  original  again.  Egyptian  ingenuity  was  more  unsatis- 
fied, conserving  their  bodies  in  sweet  consistences,  to  attend  the  return  of  their 
-souls.  But  all  was  vanity,  feeding  the  wind,  and  folly.  The  Egyptian  mum- 
mies, which  Cambyses  or  time  hath  spared,  avarice  now  consumeih. 
Mummy  is  become  merchandize,  Mizraim  cures  wounds,  and  Pharaoh  is  sold 
lor  balsams. 

"In  vain  do  individuals  hope  for  immortality,  or  any  patent  from  oblivion, 
in  preservations  below  the  moon :  men  have  been  deceived  even  in  their  flat- 
teries above  the  sun,  and  studied  conceits  to  perpetuate  their  names  in  heaven. 
The  various  cosmography  of  that  part  hath  already  varied  the  names  of  con- 
Irived  constellations;  Nimrod  is  lost  in  Orion,  and  Osiris  in  the  Dog-star. 
While  we  look  for  incorruption  in  the  heavens,  we  find  they  are  but  like 
the  earth  ;  durable  in  their  main  bodies,  alterable  in  their  parts ;  whereof  beside 
comets  and  new  stars,  pers])ectives  begin  to  tell  tales.  And  the  spots  that 
wander  about  the  sun,  witii  Phnclon's  favour,  would  make  clear  conviction. 

"  There  is  nothing  immortal  but  immortality ;  whatever  hath  no  beginning 
may  be  confident  of  no  end.  All  others  have  a  dependent  being,  and  within 
the  reach  of  destruction,  which  is  the  peculiar  of  that  necessary  essence  that 
cannot  destroy  itself;  and  the  highest  strain  of  omnipotency  to  be  so  power- 
fully constituted,  as  not  to  suffer  even  from  the  power  of  itself.  But  the  suffi- 
ciency of  Christian  immortality  frustrates  all  earthly  glory,  and  the  quality  of 
either  state  after  death  makes  a  folly  of  posthumous  memory.  God,  who  can 
only  destroy  our  souls,  and  hath  assured  our  resurrection,  either  of  our  bodies 
or  names,  hath  directly  promised  no  duration.  Wherein  there  is  so  much  of 
chance,  that  the  boldest  expectants  have  found  unhappy  frustration  ;  and  to 
hold  long  subsistence,  seems  but  a  scape  in  oblivion.  But  man  is  a  noble 
animal,  splendid  in  ashes,  and  pompous  in  the  grave,  solemnizing  Nativities 
and  Deaths  with  equal  lustre,  nor  omitting  ceremonies  of  bravery,  in  the  in- 
famy of  his  nature. 

"  Life  is  a  pure  flame,  and  we  live  by  an  invisible  sun  witliin  us.  A  small 
fire  sufficeth  for  life,  great  flames  seemed  too  little  after  death,  while  men 
vainly  affected  precious  pyres,  and  to  burn  like  Sardanapalus  j  but  the  wisdom 


CHARACTER  OF  SIR  T.  BROWN  AS  A  WRITER.        187 

of  funeral  laws  found  the  folly  of  prodigal  blazes,  and  reduced  undoing  fires 
unlo  the  rule  of  sober  obsequies,  wherein  few  could  be  so  mean  as  not  to  pro- 
vide wood,  pitch,  a  mourner,  and  an  urn. 

"Five  languages  secured  not  the  epitaph  of  Gordianus;  the  man  of  God 
lives  longer  without  a  tomb  than  any  by  one,  invisibly  interred  by  angels,  and 
adjudged  to  obscurity,  though  not  without  some  marks  directing  human  dis- 
covery. Enoch  and  Elias,  without  either  tomb  or  burial,  in  an  anomalous 
state  of  being,  are  the  great  examples  of  perpetuity,  in  their  long  and  living 
memory,  in  strict  account  being  still  on  this  side  death,  and  having  a  late 
part  yet  to  act  on  this  stage  of  earth.  If  in  the  decretory  term  of  the  world 
we  shall  not  all  die,  but  be  changed,  according  to  received  translation,  the  last 
day  will  make  but  few  graves ;  at  least  quick  resurrections  will  anticipate 
lasting  sepultures  ;  some  graves  will  be  opened  before  they  be  quite  closed, 
and  Lazarus  be  no  wonder.  When  many  that  feared  to  die  shall  groan  that 
they  can  die  but  once,  the  dismal  state  is  the  second  and  living  death,  when 
life  puts  despair  on  the  damned  ;  when  men  shall  wish  the  covering  of  moun- 
tains, not  of  monuments,  and  annihilation  shall  be  courted. 

"  While  some  have  studied  monuments,  others  have  studiously  declined 
them ;  and  some  have  been  so  vainly  boisterous,  that  they  durst  not  acknow- 
ledge their  graves ;  wherein  Alaricus  seems  most  subtle,  who  had  a  river 
turned  to  hide  his  bones  at  the  bottom.  Even  Sylla,  that  thought  himself  safe 
in  his  urn,  could  not  prevent  revenging  tongues  and  stones  thrown  at  his 
monument,  Happy  are  they  whom  privacy  makes  innocent,  who  deal  so 
with  men  in  this  world  that  they  are  not  afraid  to  meet  them  in  the  next, — who, 
when  they  die,  make  no  commotion  among  the  dead,  and  are  not  touched  with 
that  poetical  taunt  of  Isaiah. 

"  Pyramids,  arches,  obelisks,  were  but  the  irregularities  of  vain-glory,  and 
wild  enormities  of  ancient  magnanimity.  But  the  most  magnanimous  reso- 
lution rests  in  the  Chi'istian  religion,  which  trampleth  upon  pride,  and  sits  on 
the  neck  of  ambition,  humbly  pursuing  that  infallible  perpetuity,  unto  which 
all  others  must  diminish  their  diameters  and  be  poorly  seen  in  angles  of 
contingency. 

"  Pious  spirits,  who  passed  their  days  in  raptures  of  futurity,  made  little 
more  of  this  world  than  the  world  that  was  before  it,  while  they  lay  obscure 
in  the  chaos  of  pre-ordination,  and  night  of  their  fore-beings.  And  if  any  have 
been  so  happy  as  truly  to  understand  Christian  annihilation,  ecstasies,  exolution, 
liquefaction,  transformation,  the  kiss  of  the  spouse,  gustation  of  God,  and  in- 
gression  into  the  divine  shadow,  they  have  already  had  a  handsome  anticipa- 
tion of  heaven  ;  the  glory  of  the  world  is  surely  over,  and  the  earth  in  ashes 
unto  them, 

"  To  subsist  in  lasting  monuments,  to  live  in  their  productions,  to  exist  in 
their  names,  and  predicament  of  chimeras,  was  large  satisfaction  unto  old  ex- 
pectations, and  made  one  part  of  their  Elysiums,  But  all  this  is  nothing  in 
the  metaphysics  of  true  belief.  To  live  indeed  is  to  be  again  ourselves,  which 
being  not  only  a  hope  but  an  evidence  in  noble  believers :  'tis  all  one  to  lie 
in  St.  Innocent's  church-yard  as  in  the  sands  of  Egypt ;  ready  to  be  anything, 


188  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

in  the  ecstacy  of  being  erer,  and  as  content  with  six  foot  as  the  moles  of  Adri- 
anus." 

I  subjoin  the  following  account  of  this  extraordinary  writer's 
style,  said  to  be  written  in  a  blank  leaf  of  his  works  by  Mr. 
Coleridge : 

"  Sir  Thomas  Brown  is  among  my  first  favourites.  Rich  in 
various  knowledge,  exuberant  in  conceptions  and  conceits ;  con- 
templative, imaginative,  often  truly  great  and  magnificent  in  his 
style  and  diction,  though,  doubtless,  too  often  big,  stiff,  and  hyper- 
latinistic  :  thus  I  might,  without  admixture  of  falsehood,  de- 
scribe Sir  T.  Brown  ;  and  my  description  would  have  this  fault 
only,  that  it  would  be  equally,  or  almost  equally,  applicable  to 
half  a  dozen  other  writers,  from  the  beginning  of  the  reign  of 
Elizabeth  to  the  end  of  the  reign  of  Charles  the  Second.  He  is 
indeed  all  this ;  and  what  he  has  more  than  all  this,  and  peculiar 
to  himself,  I  seem  to  convey  to  my  own  mind  in  some  measure, 
by  saying  that  he  is  a  quiet  and  sublime  enthusiast,  with  a  strong 
tinge  of  ihefantast  ;  the  humourist  constantly  mingling  with,  and 
flashing  across  the  philosopher,  as  the  darting  colours  in  shot- 
silk  play  upon  the  main  dye.  In  short,  he  has  brains  in  his 
head,  which  is  all  the  more  interesting  for  a  little  twist  in  the 
brains.  He  sometimes  reminds  the  reader  of  Montaigne  ;  but 
from  no  other  than  the  general  circumstance  of  an  egotism  com- 
mon to  both,  which,  in  Montaigne,  is  too  often  a  mere  amusing 
gossip,  a  chit-chat  stoiy  of  whims  and  peculiarities  that  lead  to 
nothing  ;  but  which,  in  Sir  Thomas  Brown,  is  always  the  result 
of  a  feeling  heart,  conjoined  with  a  mind  of  active  curiosity,  the 
natural  and  becoming  egotism  of  a  man,  who,  loving  other 
men  as  himself,  gains  the  habit  and  the  privilege  of  talking  about 
himself  as  familiarly  as  about  other  men.  Fond  of  the  curious, 
and  a  hunter  of  oddities  and  strangenesses,  while  he  conceives 
himself  with  quaint  and  humorous  gravity,  an  useful  inquirer 
into  physical  truths  and  fundamental  science,  he  loved  to  contem- 
plate and  discuss  his  own  thoughts  and  feelings,  because  he 
found  by  comparison  with  other  men's,  that  they^  too,  were  curi- 
osities ;  and  so,  with  a  perfectly  graceful,  interesting  ease,  he 
put  them,  too,  into  his  museum  and  cabinet  of  rarities.  In  very- 
truth,  he  was  not  mistaken,  so  completely  does  he  see  every  thing 


CHARACTER  OF  SIR  T.  BROWN  AS  A  WRITER.        189 

ia  a  light  of  his  own  ;  reading  nature  neither  by  sun,  moon,  nor 
candle-light,  but  by  the  light  of  the  fairy  glory  around  his  own 
head  ;  that  you  might  say,  that  nature  had  granted  to  him  in 
perpetuity,  a  patent  and  monopoly  for  all  his  thoughts.  Read 
his  Hydriotapliia  above  all,  and,  in  addition  to  the  peculiarity, 
the  exclusive  Sir  Thomas  Browness  of  all  the  fancies  and  modes 
of  illustration,  wonder  at,  and  admire,  his  entireness  in  every 
subject  which  is  before  him.  He  is  totus  in  ilb,  he  follows  it,  he 
never  wanders  from  it,  and  he  has  no  occasion  to  wander ;  for 
whatever  happens  to  be  his  subject,  he  metamorphoses  all  nature 
into  it.  In  that  ^  Hydriotaphia/  or  treatise  on  some  urns  dug  up 
in  Norfolk — how  earthy,  how  redolent  of  graves  and  sepulchres 
is  every  line  !  You  have  now  dark  mould  ;  now  a  thighbone ; 
now  a  skull ;  then  a  bit  of  a  mouldered  coffin  ;  a  fragment  of 
an  old  tombstone,  with  moss  in  its  hie  jaeet ;  a  ghost,  a  winding 
sheet ;  or  the  echo  of  a  funeral  psalm  wafted  on  a  November 
wind  :  and  the  gayest  thing  you  shall  meet  with  shall  be  a  silver 
nail,  or  gilt  anno  domini,  from  a  perished  coffin  top  ! — The  very 
same  remark  applies  in  the  same  force  to  the  interesting,  though 
far  less  interesting,  treatise  on  the  ^  Quincuncial  Plantations  of 
the  Ancients,'  the  same  entireness  of  subject !  Quincunxes  in 
heaven  above ;  quincunxes  in  earth  below ;  quincunxes  in 
deity ;  quincunxes  in  the  mind  of  man  ;  quincunxes  in  tones,  in. 
optic  nerves,  in  roots  of  trees,  in  leaves,  in  every  thing !  In 
short,  just  turn  to  the  last  leaf  of  this  volume,  and  read  out 
aloud  to  yourself  the  seven  last  paragraphs  of  chapter  5th,  be- 
ginning with  the  words,  '  More  considerable.'  But  it  is  time 
for  me  to  be  in  bed.  In  the  words  of  Sir  T.  Brown  (which  will 
serve  as  a  fine  specimen  of  his  manner,)  '  But  the  quincunxes 
of  Heaven  [the  hyades,  or  Jive  stars  about  the  horizon,  at  midnight 
at  that  time)  run  low,  and  it  is  time  we  close  the  five  parts  of 
knowledge ;  we  are  unwilling  to  spin  out  our  waking  thoughts 
into  the  phantoms  of  sleep,  which  often  continue  precogitations, 
making  cables  of  cobwebs,  and  wildernesses  of  handsome  groves. 
To  keep  our  eyes  open  longer,  were  to  act  our  antipodes  ?  The 
huntsmen  are  up  in  Arabia  ;  and  they  have  already  passed  their 
first  sleep  in  Persia..'  Think  you,  that  there  ever  was  such  a 
reason  given  before  for  going  to  bed  at  midnight ;  to  wit,  that  if 


190  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

we  did  not,  we  should  be  acting  the  part  of  our  antipodes !  And 
then,  'the  huntsmen  are  up  in  Arabia,' — what  life,  what 
fancy  !  Does  the  whimsical  knight  give  us  thus  the  essence  of 
gunpowder  tea,  and  call  it  an  opiate  ?* 

Jeremy  Taylor  was  a  writer  as  different  from  Sir  Thomas 
Brown  as  it  was  possible  for  one  writer  to  be  from  another.  He 
was  a  dignitary  of  the  church,  and  except  in  matters  of  casuistry 
and  controverted  points,  could  not  be  supposed  to  enter  upon 
speculative  doubts,  or  give  a  loose  to  a  sort  of  dogmatical  scep- 
ticism. He  had  less  thought,  less  "stuff  of  the  conscience,"  less 
"to  give  us  pause,"  in  his  impetuous  oratory,  but  he  had  equal 
fancy — not  the  same  vastness  and  profundity,  but  more  richness 
and  beauty,  more  warmth  and  tenderness.  He  is  as  rapid,  as 
flowing,  and  endless,  as  the  other  is  stately,  abrupt,  and  concen- 
trated. The  eloquence  of  the  one  is  like  a  river,  that  of  the  other 
is  more  like  an  aqueduct.  The  one  is  as  sanguine,  as  the  other 
is  saturnine  in  the  temper  of  his  mind.  Jeremy  Taylor  took 
obvious  and  admitted  truths  for  granted,  and  illustrated  them 
with  an  inexhaustible  display  of  new  and  enchanting  imagery. 
Sir  Thomas  Brown  talks  in  sum-totals :  Jeremy  Taylor  enume- 
rates all  the  particulars  of  a  subject.  He  gives  every  aspect  it 
will  bear,  and  never  "  cloys  with  sameness."  His  characteristic 
is  enthusiastic  and  delightful  amplification.     Sir  Thomas  Brown 

*  Sir  Thomas  Brown  has  it,  "  The  huntsmen  are  up  in  America,"  but  Mr. 
Coleridge  prefers  reading  Arabia.  I  do  not  think  his  account  of  the  Urn- 
Burial  very  happy.  Sir  Thomas  can  be  said  to  be  "  wholly  in  his  subject," 
only  because  he  is  wholhj  out  of  it.  There  is  not  a  word  in  the  '  Hydriotet- 
phia'  about  "  a  thigh-bone,  or  a  skull,  or  a  bit  of  mouldered  coffin,  or  a  toml> 
stone,  or  a  ghost,  or  a  winding-sheet,  or  an  echo,"  nor  is  "  a  silver  nail  or  a 
gilt  amio  domini  the  gayest  thing  you  shall  meet  with."  You  do  not  mee. 
with  them  at  all  in  the  text ;  nor  is  it  possible,  cither  from  the  nature  of  tlh 
subject,  or  of  Sir  T.  Brown's  mind,  that  you  should  \  He  chose  the  subject 
of  Urn-Burial,  because  it  was  "  one  of  no  mark  or  likelihood,"  totally  free 
from  the  romantic  prettinessesand  pleasing  poetical  common-places  with  which 
Mr.  Coleridge  has  adorned  it,  and  because,  being  "  without  form  and  void,"  it 
gave  unlimited  scope  to  his  high-raised  and  shadowy  imagination.  The 
motto  of  this  author's  compositions  might  be — "  Dc  npparentibvs  ct  non  cxistcn- 
tilfus  eaflem  est  ratio.  He  created  his  own  materials:  or  to  speak  of  him  in  his 
own  language,  "  he  saw  nature  in  the  elements  of  its  chaos,  and  discerned  his 
favourite  notions  in  the  great  obscurity  of  nothing !" 


i 


CHARACTER  OF  JEREMY  TAYLOR.  191 

gives  the  beginning  and  end  of  things,  that  you  may  judge  of 
their  place  and  magnitude  :  Jeremy  Taylor  describes  their  quali- 
ties  and  texture,  and  enters  into  all  the  items  of  the  debtor  and 
creditor  account  between  life  and  death,  grace  and  nature,  faith 
and  good  works.  He  puts  his  heart  into  his  fancy.  He  does  not 
pretend  to  annihilate  the  passions  and  pursuits  of  mankind  in  the 
pride  of  philosophic  indifference,  but  treats  them  as  serious  and 
momentous  things,  warring  with  conscience  and  the  soul's  healthy 
or  furnishing  the  means  of  grace  and  hopes  of  glory.  In  his 
writings,  the  frail  stalk  of  human  life  reclines  on  the  bosom  of 
eternity.  His  '  Holy  Living  and  Dying'  is  a  divine  pastoral. 
He  writes  to  the  faithful  followers  of  Christ,  as  the  shepherd  pipes 
to  his  flock.  He  introduces  touching  and  heart-felt  appeals  to 
familiar  life ;  condescends  to  men  of  low  estate ;  and  his  pious 
page  blushes  with  modesty  and  beauty.  His  style  is  prismatic. 
It  unfolds  the  colours  of  the  rainbow ;  it  floats  like  the  bubble 
through  the  air ;  it  is  like  innumerable  dew-drops  that  glitter  on 
the  face  of  morning,  and  tremble  as  they  glitter.  He  does  not 
dig  his  way  underground,  but  slides  upon  ice,  borne  on  the 
winged  car  of  fancy.  The  dancing  light  he  throws  upon  objects 
is  like  an  Aurora  Borealis,  playing  betwixt  heaven  and  earth — 

"  Where  pure  Niemi's  faery  banks  arise, 

And  fringed  with  roses  Tenglio  rolls  its.  stream." 

His  exhortations  to  piety  and  virtue  are  a  gay  memento  mori. 
He  mixes  up  death's-heads  and  amaranthine  flowers ;  makes  life 
a  procession  to  the  grave,  but  crowns  it  with  gaudy  garlands, 
and  "  rains  sacrificial  roses"  on  its  path.  In  a  word,  his  writings 
are  more  like  fine  poetry  than  any  other  prose  whatever ;  they 
are  a  choral  song  in  praise  of  virtue,  and  a  hymn  to  the  Spirit  of 
the  Universe.  I  shall  give  a  few  passages,  to  show  how  feeble 
and  inefficient  this  praise  is. 

The  '  Holy  Dying'  begins  in  this  manner : — 

"  Man  is  a  bubble.  He  is  born  in  vanity  and  sin  ;  he  comes  into  the  world 
like  morning  mushrooms,  soon  thrusting  up  their  heads  into  the  air,  and  con- 
versing with  their  kindred  of  the  same  production,  and  as  soon  they  turn  into 
dust  and  forgetfulness ;  some  of  them  without  any  other  interest  in  the  affairs 
of  the  world,  but  that  they  made  their  parents  a  little  glad,  and  very  sorrowfu?. 


19-2  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

Others  ride  longer  in  the  storm;  it  may  be  until  seven  years  of  vanity  be  ex- 
pired, and  then  peradventure  the  sun  shines  hot  upon  their  heads,  and  they  fall 
into  the  shades  below,  into  the  cover  of  death  and  darkness  of  the  grave  to  hide 
them.  But  if  the  bubble  stands  the  shock  of  a  bigger  drop,  and  outlives  the 
chances  of  a  child,  of  a  careless  nurse,  of  drowning  in  a  pail  of  water,  of  being 
overlaid  by  a  sleepy  servant,  or  such  little  accidents,  then  the  young  man  dances 
like  a  bubble  empty  and  gay,  and  shines  like  a  dove's  neck,  or  the  image  of  a 
rainbow,  which  hath  no  substance,  and  whose  very  imagery  and  colours  are 
fantastical;  and  so  he  dances  out  the  gaiety  of  his  youth,  and  is  all  the  while 
in  a  storm,  and  endures,  only  because  he  is  not  knocked  on  the  head  by  a  drop 
of  bigger  rain,  or  crushed  by  the  pressure  of  a  load  of  indigested  meat,  or 
quenched  by  the  disorder  of  an  ill-placed  humour;  and  to  preserve  a  man  alive 
in  the  midst  of  so  many  chances  and  hostilities,  is  as  great  a  miracle  as  to  create 
him  ;  to  preserve  him  from  rushing  into  nothing,  and  at  first  to  draw  him  up 
from  nothing,  were  equally  the  issues  of  an  Almighty  power." 

Another  instance  of  the  same  rich  continuity  of  feeling,  and 
transparent  brilliancy  in  working  out  an  idea,  is  to  be  found  in 
his  description  of  the  dawn  and  progress  of  reason  : 

"  Some  are  called  at  age  at  fourteen,  some  at  one-and-lwenty,  some  never; 
but  all  men  late  enough ;  for  the  life  of  a  man  comes  upon  him  slowly  and  in- 
sensiby.  But  as  when  the  sun  approaches  towards  the  gates  of  the  morning, 
he  first  opens  a  little  eye  of  heaven,  and  sends  away  the  spirits  of  darkness, 
and  gives  light  to  a  cock,  and  calls  up  the  lark  to  matins,  and  by-and-by  gilds 
the  fringes  of  a  cloud,  and  peeps  over  the  eastern  hills,  thrusting  out  his  golden 
horns,  like  those  which  decked  the  brows  of  Moses,  when  he  was  forced  to 
wear  a  veil,  because  himself  had  seen  the  face  of  God  ;  and  still,  while  a  man 
tells  the  story,  the  sun  gets  up  higher,  till  he  shows  a  fair  face  and  a  full  light, 
and  then  he  shines  one  whole  day,  under  a  cloud  often,  and  sometimes  weep- 
ing great  and  little  showers,  and  sets  quickly  ;  so  is  a  man's  reason  and  his 
life." 

This  passage  puts  one  in  mind  of  tlie  rising  dawn  and  kindling 
skies  in  one  of  Claude's  landscapes.  Sir  Thomas  Brown  has 
nothino:  of  this  rich  finishinfr  and  exact  gradation.  The  frenius 
of  the  two  men  differed,  as  that  of  the  painter  from  the  mathema- 
tician. The  one  measures  objects,  the  other  copies  them.  The 
one  shows  that  things  are  nothing  out  of  themselves,  or  in  rela- 
tion to  the  whole  :  the  one,  what  they  are  in  themselves  and  in 
relation  to  us.  Or  the  one  may  be  said  to  apply  the  telescope  of 
the  mind  to  distant  bodies  ;  the  other  looks  at  nature  in  its  infinite 
minuteness  and  glossy  splendour  through  a  solar  microscope. 

In  speaking  of  Death,  our  author's  style  assumes  the  port  and 


CHARACTER  OF  JEREMY  TAYLOR,  193 

withering  smile  of  the  King  of  Terrors.      The  following  are 
scattered  passages  on  this  subject. 

*'  It  is  the  same  harmless  thing  that  a  poor  shepherd  suffered  yesterday  or  a 
maid-servant  to-day ;  and  at  the  same  time  in  which  you  die,  in  that  very  night 
a  thousand  creatures  die  with  you,  some  wise  men,  and  many  fools ;  and  the 
wisdom  of  the  first  will  not  quit  him,  and  the  folly  of  the  latter  does  not  make 
him  unable  to  die."  .... 

"  I  have  read  of  a  fair  young  German  gentleman,  who,  while  living,  often 
refused  to  be  pictured,  but  put  off  the  importunity  of  his  friends'  desire  by  giving 
way  that  after  a  few  days'  burial,  they  might  send  a  painter  to  his  vault,  and 
if  they  saw  cause  for  it,  draw  the  image  of  his  death  unto  the  life.  They  did 
so,  and  found  his  face  half  eaten,  and  his  midriff  and  back-bone  full  of  serpents ; 
and  so  he  stands  pictured  among  his  armed  ancestors."  .... 

"  It  is  a  mighty  change  that  is  made  by  the  death  of  every  person,  and  it  is 
visible  to  us,  who  are  alive.  Reckon  but  from  the  sprightfulness  of  youth  and 
the  fair  cheeks  and  full  eyes  of  childhood,  from  the  vigorousness  and  strong 
flexure  of  the  joints  of  five-and-twenty,  to  the  hoUowness  and  dead  paleness,  to 
the  loathsomeness  and  horror  of  a  three  days'  burial,  and  we  shall  perceive  the 
distance  to  be  very  great  and  very  strange,  But  so  have  I  seen  a  rose  newly 
springing  from  the  clefts  of  its  hood,  and  at  first  it  was  fair  as  the  morning,  and 
full  with  the  dew  of  heaven,  as  the  lamb's  fleece  ;  but  when  a  ruder  breath  had 
forced  open  its  virgin  modesty,  and  dismantled  its  too  youthful  and  unripe  re- 
tirements, it  began  to  put  on  darkness  and  to  decline  to  softness  and  the  symp- 
toms of  a  sickly  age,  it  bowed  the  head  and  broke  its  stalk,  and  at  night,  having 
lost  some  of  its  leaves,  and  all  its  beauty,  it  fell  into  the  portion  of  weeds  and 
out-worn  faces.  So  does  the  fairest  beauty  change,  and  it  will  be  as  bad  with 
you  and  me ;  and  then  what  servants  shall  we  have  to  wait  upon  us  in  the 
grave  %  What  friends  to  visit  us '?  What  oflicious  people  to  cleanse  away  the 
moist  and  unwholesome  cloud  reflected  upon  our  faces  from  the  sides  of  the 
weeping  vaults,  which  are  the  longest  weepers  for  our  funerals  1" 

"A  man  may  read  a  sermon,  the  best  and  most  passionate  that  ever  man 
preached,  if  he  shall  but  enter  into  the  sepulchres  of  kings.  In  the  same  Escu- 
rial  where  the  Spanish  princes  live  in  greatness  and  power,  and  decree  war  or 
peace,  they  have  wisely  placed  a  cemetery  where  their  ashes  and  their  glory 
shall  sleep  till  time  shall  be  no  more  :  and  where  our  kings  have  been  crowned, 
their  ancestors  lie  interred,  and  they  must  walk  over  their  grandsires  head  to  take 
his  crown.  There  is  an  acre  sown  with  royal  seed,  the  copy  of  the  greatest 
change  from  rich  to  naked,  from  ceiled  roofs  to  arched  coffins,  from  living  like 
gods  to  die  like  men.  There  is  enough  to  cool  the  flames  of  lust,  to  abate 
the  heights  of  pride,  to  appease  the  itch  of  covetous  desires,  to  sully  and  dash 
out  the  dissembling  colours  of  a  lustful,  artificial,  and  imaginary  beauty.  There 
the  warlike  and  the  peaceful,  the  fortunate  and  the  miserable,  the  beloved  and 
the  despised  princes  mingle  their  dust,  and  pay  down  their  symbol  of  mortality, 
and  tell  all  the  world  that  when  we  die,  our  ashes  shall  be  equal  to  kings,  and 


194  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

our  accounts  easier,  and  our  pains  for  our  crimes  shall  be  less.*  To  my  appre- 
hension, it  is  a  sad  record  which  is  left  by  Athenaeus  concerning  jSinus  the 
great  Assyrian  monarch,  whose  life  and  death  is  summed  up  in  these  words  : 
'  Ninus  the  Assyrian  had  an  ocean  of  gold,  and  other  riches  more  than  the  sand 
in  the  Caspian  sea ;  he  never  saw  the  stars,  and  perhaps  he  never  desired  it ;  he 
never  stirred  up  the  holy  fire  among  the  Magi :  nor  touched  his  god  with  the  sa- 
cred rod  according  to  the  laws :  he  never  offered  sacrifice,  nor  worshipped  the 
deity,  nor  administered  justice,  nor  spake  to  the  people ;  nor  numbered  them :  but 
he  was  most  valiant  to  eat  and  drink,  and  having  mingled  his  wines,  he  threw  the 
rest  upon  the  stones.  This  man  is  dead,  behold  his  sepulchre,  and  now  hear 
where  IN'inusis.  Sometime  I  was  Ninus,  and  drew  the  breath  of  a  living  man, 
but  now  am  nothing  but  clay.  I  have  nothing  but  what  I  did  eat,  and  what  I 
served  to  myself  in  lust  is  all  my  portion :  the  wealth  with  which  I  was  blessed, 
my  enemies  meeting  together  shall  carry  away,  as  the  mad  Thyades  carry  a  raw 
goat.  I  am  gone  to  hell:  and  when  I  went  thither,  I  neither  carried  gold,  nor 
horse,  nor  silver  chariot.     I  that  wore  a  mitre,  am  now  a  little  heap  of  dust.'  " 

He  who  wrote  in  this  manner  also  wore  a  mitre,  and  is  now  a 
heap  of  dust:  but  when  the  name  of  Jeremy  Taylor  is  no  longer 
remembered  with  reverence,  genius  will  have  become  a  mockery, 
and  virtue  an  empty  shade  ! 


*  The  above  passage  is  an  inimitably  fine  paraphrase  of  some  lines  on  tha 
tombs  in  Westminster  Abbey  by  F.  Beaumont.  It  shows  how  near  Jeremy 
Taylor's  style  was  to  poetry,  and  how  well  it  weaves  in  with  it. 

"  Mortality,  behold,  and  fear. 

What  a  charge  of  flesh  is  here! 

Think  how  many  royal  bones 

Sleep  within  this  heap  of  stones: 

Here  they  lie,  had  realms  and  lands. 

Who  now  want  strehgth  to  stir  their  hands. 

Where  from  their  pulpits,  sealed  in  dust, 

They  preach  '  In  greatness  is  no  trust.' 

Here's  an  acre  sown  indeed 

With  the  richest,  royal'st  seed 

That  the  earth  did  e'er  suck  in, 

Since  the  first  man  died  for  sin. 

Here  the  bones  of  birth  have  cried, 

Though  gods  they  were,  as  men  they  died. 

Here  are  sands,  ignoble  things, 

Dropp'd  from  the  ruin'd  sides  of  kings. 

Here's  a  world  of  pomp  and  state 

Buried  in  dust,  once  dead  by  fate." 


ON  ANCIENT  AND  MODERN  LITERATURE.  195 


LECTURE  VIII. 

On  the  Spirit  of  Ancient  and  Modern  Literature — On  the  German  Drama, 
contrasted  with  that  of  the  Age  of  Elizabeth. 

Before  I  proceed  to  the  more  immediate  subject  of  the  present 
Lecture,  I  wish  to  say  a  few  words  of  one  or  two  writers  in  our 
own  time,  who  have  imbibed  the  spirit  and  imitated  the  language 
of  our  elder  dramatists.  Among  these  I  may  reckon  the  inge- 
nious author  of  '  The  Apostate'  and  '  Evadne,'  who,  in  the  last- 
mentioned  play,  in  particular,  has  availed  himself  with  much 
judgment  and  spirit  of  the  tragedy  of  '  The  Traitor,'  by  old 
Shirley.  It  would  be  curious  to  hear  the  opinion  of  a  professed 
admirer  of  the  Ancients,  and  captious  despiser  of  the  Moderns, 
with  respect  to  this  production,  before  he  knew  it  was  a  copy  of 
an  old  play.  Shirley  himself  lived  in  the  time  of  Charles  I.  and 
died  in  the  beginning  of  Charles  II.  ;*  but  he  had  formed  his 
style  on  that  of  the  preceding  age,  and  had  written  the  greatest 
number  of  his  plays  in  conjunction  with  Jonson,  Decker,  and 
Massinger.  He  was  "  the  last  of  those  fair  clouds  that  on  the 
bosom  of  bright  honour  sailed  in  long  procession,  beautiful 
and  calm."  The  name  of  Mr.  Tobin  is  familiar  to  every  lover 
of  the  drama.  His  '  Honey-Moon'  is  evidently  founded  on 
'The  Taming  of  a  Shrew,'  and  Duke  Aranza  has  been  pro- 
nounced by  a  polite  critic  to  be  "  an  elegant  Petruchio."  The 
plot  is  taken  from  Shakspeare  ;  but  the  language  and  sentiments, 
both  of  this  play  and  of  '  The  Curfew,'  bear  a  more  direct  re- 
semblance to  the  flowery  tenderness  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher, 
who  were,  I  believe,  the  favourite  study  of  our  author.  Mr. 
Lamb's  '  John  Woodvil'  may  be  considered  as  a  dramatic  frag- 
ment, intended  for  the  closet  rather  than  the  stage.  It  would 
sound  oddly  in  the  lobbies  of  either  theatre,  amidst  the  noise  and 

*  He  and  his  wife  both  died  from  fright,  occasioned  by  the  great  fire  of 
London  in  1665,  and  he  buried  in  St.  Giles's  churchyard. 


196  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

glare  and  bustle  of  resort;  but  "  there  where  we  have  treasured 
up  our  hearts,"  in  silence  and  in  solitude,  it  may  claim  and  find 
a  place  for  itself.  It  might  be  read  with  advantage  in  the  still 
retreats  of  Sherwood  Forest,  where  it  would  throw  a  new-born 
light  on  the  green,  sunny  glades ;  the  tenderest  flower  might 
seem  to  drink  of  the  poet's  spirit,  and  "  the  tall  deer  that  paints 
a  dancing  shadow  of  his  horns  in  the  swift  brook,"  might  seem 
to  do  so  in  mockery  of  the  poet's  thought.  Mr.  Lamb,  with  a 
modesty  often  attendant  on  fine  feeling,  has  loitered  too  long  in 
the  humbler  avenues  leading  to  the  temple  of  ancient  genius, 
instead  of  marching  boldly  up  to  the  sanctuary,  as  many  with 
half  his  pretensions  would  have  done  :  "  but  fools  rush  in,  where 
angels  fear  to  tread."  The  defective  or  objectionable  parts  of 
this  production  are  imitations  of  the  defects  of  the  old  writers : 
its  beauties  are  his  own,  though  in  their  manner.  The  touches 
of  thought  and  passion  are  often  as  pure  and  delicate  as  they 
are  profound  ;  and  the  character  of  his  heroine  Margaret  is  per- 
haps the  finest  and  most  genuine  female  character  out  of  Shaks- 
peare.  This  tragedy  was  not  critic-proof:  it  had  its  cracks  and 
flaws  and  breaches,  through  which  the  enemy  marched  in  tri- 
umphant. The  station  which  he  had  chosen  was  not  indeed  a 
walled  town,  but  a  straggling  village,  which  the  experienced  en- 
gineers proceeded  to  lay  waste  ;  and  he  is  pinned  down  in  more 
than  one  Review  of  the  day,  as  an  exemplary  warning  to  indis- 
creet writers,  who  venture  beyond  the  pale  of  periodical  taste 
and  conventional  criticism.  Mr.  Lamb  was  thus  hindered  by 
the  taste  of  the  polite  vulgar  from  writing  as  he  wished ;  his 
own  taste  would  not  allow  him  to  write  like  them :  and  he  (per- 
haps wisely)  turned  critic  and  prose-writer  in  his  own  defence. 
To  say  that  he  has  written  better  about  Sliakspeare,  and  about 
Hogarth,  than  anybody  else,  is  saying  little  in  his  praise.  A 
gentleman  of  the  name  of  Cornwall,  who  has  lately  published  a 
volume  of  Dramatic  Scenes,  has  met  with  a  very  different  recep- 
tion, but  I  cannot  say  that  he  has  deserved  it.  He  has  made  no 
sacrifice  at  the  shrine  of  fashionable  affectation  or  false  glitter. 
There  is  nothing  commonplace  in  his  style  to  soothe  the  com- 
placency of  dulncss,  nothing  extravagant  to  startle  the  grossness 
of  ignorance.     He  writes  with  simplicity,  delicacy,  and  fervour ; 


ON  ANCIENT  AND   MODERN  LITERATURE.  197 

continues  a  scene  from  Shakspeare,  or  works  out  a  hint  from 
Boccacio,  in  the  spirit  of  his  originals,  and  though  he  bows  with 
reverence  at  the  ahar  of  those  great  masters,  he  keeps  an  eye 
curiously  intent  on  nature,  and  a  mind  awake  to  the  admoni- 
tions of  his  own  heart.  As  he  has  begun,  so  let  him  proceed. 
Any  one  who  will  turn  to  the  glowing  and  richly- coloured  con- 
clusion of  '  The  Falcon,'  will,  I  think,  agree  with  me  in  this 
wish ! 

There  are  four  sorts  or  schools  of  tragedy  with  which  I  am 
acquainted.  The  first  is  the  antique  or  classical.  This  con- 
sisted, I  apprehend,  in  the  introduction  of  persons  on  the  stage, 
speaking,  feeling,  and  acting  according  to  nature,  that  is,  accord- 
ing to  the  impression  of  given  circumstances  on  the  passions  and 
mind  of  man  in  those  circumstances,  but  limited  by  the  physical 
conditions  of  time  and  place,  as  to  its  external  form,  and  to  a 
certain  dignity  of  attitude  and  expression,  selection  in  the  figures, 
and  unity  in  their  grouping,  as  in  a  statue  or  bas-relief.  The 
second  is  the  Gothic  or  romantic,  or,  as  it  might  be  called,  the 
historical  or  poetical  tragedy,  and  differs  from  the  former,  only 
in  having  a  larger  scope  in  the  design  and  boldness  in  the  exe- 
cution ;  that  is,  it  is  the  dramatic  representation  of  nature  and 
passion  emancipated  from  the  precise  imitation  of  an  actual 
event  in  place  and  time,  from  the  same  fastidiousness  in  the 
choice  of  the  materials,  and  with  the  license  of  the  epic  and  fan- 
ciful form  added  to  it  in  the  range  of  the  subject  and  the  decora- 
tions of  language.  This  is  particularly  the  style  or  school  of 
Shakspeare  and  of  the  best  writers  of  the  age  of  Elizabeth,  and 
the  one  immediately  following.  Of  this  class,  or  genus,  the 
tragedie  hourgeoise  is  a  variety,  and  the  antithesis  of  the  classical , 
form.  The  third  sort  is  the  French  or  common- place  rhetorical 
style,  which  is  founded  on  the  antique  as  to  its  form  and  subject 
matter ;  but  instead  of  individual  nature,  real  passion,  or  ima- 
gination growing  out  of  real  passion  and  the  circumstances  of 
the  speaker,  it  deals  only  in  vague,  imposing,  and  laboured  de-  \ 
clamations,  or  descriptions  of  nature,  dissertations  on  the  passions, 
and  pompous  flourishes  which  never  entered  any  head  but  the 
author's,  have  no  existence  in  nature  which  they  pretend  to  iden- 
tify, and  are  not  dramatic  at  all,  but  purely  didactic.     The 


198  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

fourth  and  last  is  the  German  or  paradoxical  style,  which  differs 
from  the  others  in  representing  men  as  acting  not  from  the  im- 
pulse of  feeling,  or  as  debating  common-place  questions  of  mo- 
rality, but  as  the  organs  and  mouth-pieces  (that  is,  as  acting, 
speaking,  and  thinking  under  the  sole  influence)  of  certain  ex- 
travagant speculative  opinions,  abstracted  from  all  existing  cus- 
toms, prejudices,  and  institutions.  It  is  my  present  business  to 
speak  chiefly  of  the  first  and  last  of  these. 

Sophocles  differs  from  Shakspeare  as  a  Doric  portico  does  from 
Westminster  Abbey.     The  principle  of  the  one  is  simplicity  and 
^  harmony,  of  the  other  richness  and  power.     The   one   relies  on 
^  form  or  proportion,  the  other  on  quantity,  and  variety,  and  pro- 
I  minence  of  parts.     The  one  owes  its  charm  to   a  certain   union 
'   and  regularity  of  feeling,  the  other  adds  to  its  effect  from   com- 
plexity and  the  combination  of  the  greatest  extremes.    The  clas- 
sical appeals  to  sense  and  habit ;  the  Gothic  or  romantic  strikes 
from  novelty,  strangeness,  and  contrast.     Both   are   founded  in 
essential  and  indestructible  principles  of  human  nature.     We 
may  prefer  the  one  to  the  other,  as  we  choose,  but  to  set   up  an 
arbitrary  and  bigotted  standard  of  excellence  in  consequence  of 
this  preference,  and  to  exclude  either  one  or  the  other  from  poetry 
or  art,  is  to  deny  the  existence  of  the  first  principles  of  the  hu- 
man mind,  and  to  war  with  nature,  which  is  the  height  of  weak- 
ness and  arrogance  at  once.     There  are   some  observations  on 
this  subject  in  a  late  number  of  the  '  Edinburgh  Review,'  from 
which  I  shall  here  make  a  pretty  long  extract : 

*'  The  most  obvious  distinction  between  the  two  styles,  the 
classical  and  the  romantic,  is,  that  the  one  is  conversant  with 
objects  that  are  grand  or  beautiful  in  themselves,  or  in  conse- 
quence of  obvious  and  universal  associations  ;  the  other,  with 
those  that  are  interesting  only  by  the  force  of  circumstances  and 
imagination.  A  Grecian  temple,  for  instance,  is  a  classical  ob- 
ject :  it  is  beautiful  in  itself,  and  excites  immediate  admiration. 
But  the  ruins  of  a  Gothic  castle  have  no  beauty  or  symmetry  to 
attract  the  eye  ;  and  yet  they  excite  a  more  powerful  and  roman- 
tic interest,  from  the  ideas  with  which  they  are  habitually  asso- 
ciated. If,  in  addition  to  this,  we  are  told  that  this  is  Macbeth's 
castle,  the  scene  of  the  murder  of  Duncan,  the  interest  will  be 


ON  ANCIENT  AND  MODERN  LITERATURE.  199 

instantly  heightened  to  a  sort  of  pleasing  horror.  The  classical 
idea  or  form  of  any  thing,  it  may  also  be  observed,  remains  always 
the  same,  and  suggests  nearly  the  same  impressions  ;  but  the  as- 
sociations of  ideas  belonging  to  the  romantic  character  may  vary 
infinitely,  and  take  in  the  whole  range  of  nature  and  accident. 
Antigone,  in  Sophocles,  waiting  near  the  grove  of  the  Furies — 
Electra,  in  ^schylus,  offering  sacrifice  at  the  tomb  of  Agamem- 
non — are  classical  subjects,  because  the  circumstances  and  the 
characters  have  a  correspondent  dignity,  and  an  immediate  in- 
terest, from  their  mere  designation.  Florimel,  in  Spenser,  where 
she  is  described  sitting  on  the  ground  in  the  Witch's  hut,  is  not 
classical,  though  in  the  highest  degree  poetical  and  romantic  : 
for  the  incidents  and  situation  are  in  themselves  mean  and  disa- 
greeable, till  they  are  redeemed  by  the  genius  of  the  poet,  and 
converted,  by  the  very  contrast,  into  a  source  of  the  utmost 
pathos  and  elevation  of  sentiment.  Othello's  handkerchief  is  not 
classical,  though  "  there  was  magic  in  the  web  :" — it  is  only  a 
powerful  instrument  of  passion  a!id  imagination.  Even  Lear  is 
not  classical ;  for  he  is  a  poor  crazy  old  man,  who  has  nothing 
sublime  about  him  but  his  afflictions,  and  who  dies  of  a  broken 
heart. 

"  Schlegel  somewhere  compares  the  Furies  of  ^schylus  to 
the  Witches  of  Shakspeare — we  think  without  much  reason. 
Perhaps  Shakspeare  has  surrounded  the  weird  sisters  with  asso- 
ciations as  terrible,  and  even  more  mysterious,  strange  and  fan- 
tastic, than  the  Furies  of  ^schylus  ;  but  the  traditionary  beings 
themselves  are  not  so  petrific.  These  are  of  marble — their  look 
alone  must  blast  the  beholder  ; — those  are  of  air,  bubbles ;  and 
though  '  so  withered  and  so  wild  in  their  attire,'  it  is  their  spells 
alone  which  are  fatal.  They  owe  their  power  to  metaphysical 
aid :  but  the  others  contain  all  that  is  dreadful  in  their  corporeal 
figures.  In  this  we  see  the  distinct  spirit  of  the  classical  and  the 
romantic  mythology.  The  serpents  that  twine  round  the  head 
of  the  Furies  are  not  to  be  trifled  with,  though  they  implied  no 
preternatural  power.  The  bearded  Witches  in  Macbeth  are  in 
themselves  grotesque  and  ludicrous,  except  as  this  strange  devia- 
tion from  nature  staggers  our  imagination,  and  leads  us  to  ex- 
pect and  to  believe  in  all  incredible  things.     They  appal  the  fa- 


200  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

culties  by  what  they  say  or  do  ; — the  others  are  intolerable,  even 
to  sight. 

"  Our  author  is  right  in  affirming,  that  the  true  way  to  under- 
stand the  plays  of  Sophocles  and  ^Eschylus,  is  to  study  them 
before  the  groupes  of  the  Niobe  or  the  Laocoon.  If  we  can 
succeed  in  explaining  this  analogy,  we  shall  have  solved  nearly 
the  whole  difficulty.  For  it  is  certain,  that  there  are  exactly  the 
same  powers  of  mind  displayed  in  the  poetry  of  the  Greeks  as  in 
their  statues.  Their  poetry  is  exactly  what  their  sculptors  might 
have  written.  Both  are  exquisite  imitations  of  nature;  the  one 
in  marble,  the  other  in  words.  It  is  evident  that  the  Greek  poets 
had  the  same  perfect  idea  of  the  subjects  they  described  as  the 
Greek  sculptors  had  of  the  objects  they  represented ;  and  they 
give  as  much  of  this  absolute  truth  of  imitation  as  can  be  given 
by  words.  But  in  this  direct  and  simple  imitation  of  nature,  as 
in  describing  the  form  of  a  beautiful  woman,  the  poet  is  greatly 
inferior  to  the  sculptor;  it  is  in  the  power  of  illustration,  in  com- 
paring  it  to  other  things,  and  suggesting  other  ideas  of  beauty  or 
love,  that  he  has  an  entirely  new  source  of  imagination  opened 
to  him :  and  of  this  power  the  moderns  have  made  at  least  a 
bolder  and  more  frequent  use  than  the  ancients.  The  description 
of  Helen  in  Homer  is  a  description  of  what  might  have  happened 
and  been  seen,  as  '  that  she  moved  with  grace,  and  that  the  old 
men  rose  up  with  reverence  as  she  passed;'  the  description  of 
Belphoebe  in  Spenser  is  a  description  of  what  was  only  visible  to 
the  eye  of  the  poet : 

"  Upon  her  eyelids  many  graces  sat, 
Under  the  shadow  of  her  even  brows." 

The  description  of  the  soldiers  going  to  battle  in  Shakspeare, '  all 
plumed  like  ostriches,  like  eagles  newly  baited,  wanton  as  goats, 
wild  as  young  bulls,'  is  too  bold,  figurative,  and  profuse  of  dazzling 
images,  for  the  mild,  equable  tone  of  classical  poetry,  which  never 
loses  sight  of  the  object  in  the  illustration.  The  ideas  of  the  an- 
cients were  too  exact  and  definite,  too  much  attached  to  the  mate- 
rial form  or  vehicle  by  which  they  were  conveyed,  to  admit  of 
those  rapid  combinations,  those  unrestrained  flights  of  fancy, 
which,  glancing  from  heaven  to  earth,  unite  the  most  opposite 


ON  ANCIENT  AND  MODERN  LITERATURE.  201 


extremes,  and  draw  the  happiest  illustrations  from  things  the 
most  remote.  The  two  principles  of  imitation  and  imagination, 
indeed,  are  not  only  distinct,  but  almost  opposite. 

"  The  great  difference,  then,  which  we  find  between  the  classi- 
cal and  the  romantic  style,  between  ancient  and  modern  poetry, 
is,  that  the  one  more  frequently  describes  things  as  they  are  in- 
teresting in  themselves — the  other  for  the  sake  of  the  associations 
of  ideas  connected  with  them ;  that  the  one  dwells  more  on  tne 
immediate  impressions  of  objects  on  the  senses — the  other  on  the 
ideas  which  they  suggest  to  the  imagination.  The  one  is  the 
poetry  of  form,  the  other  of  effect.  The  one  gives  only  what  is 
necessarily  implied  in  the  subject,  the  other  all  that  can  possibly 
arise  out  of  it.  The  one  seeks  to  identify  the  imitation  with  the 
external  object — clings  to  it — is  inseparable  from  it — is  either  that 
or  nothing ;  the  otiier  seeks  to  identify  the  original  impression 
with  whatever  else,  within  the  range  of  thought  or  feeling,  can 
strengthen,  relieve,  adorn,  or  elevate  it.  Hence  the  severity  and 
simplicity  of  the  Greek  tragedy,  which  excluded  everything 
foreign  or  unnecessary  to  the  subject.  Hence  the  Unities :  for, 
in  order  to  identify  the  imitation  as  m.uch  as  possible  with  the 
reality,  and  leave  nothing  to  mere  imagination,  it  was  necessary 
to  give  the  same  coherence  and  consistency  to  the  different  parts 
of  a  story,  as  to  the  different  limbs  of  a  statue.  Hence  the  beauty 
and  grandeur  of  their  materials;  for,  deriving  their  power  over 
the  mind  from  the  truth  of  the  imitation,  it  was  necessary  that 
the  subject  which  they  made  choice  of,  and  from  which  they 
could  not  depart,  should  be  in  itself  grand  and  beautiful.  Hence 
the  perfection  of  their  execution ;  which  consisted  in  giving  the 
utmost  harmony,  delicacy,  and  refinement  to  the  details  of  a 
given  subject.  Now,  the  characteristic  excellence  of  the  moderns 
is  the  reverse  of  all  this.  As,  according  to  our  author,  the  poetry 
of  the  Greeks  is  the  same  as  their  sculpture ;  so,  he  says,  our 
own  more  nearly  resembles  painting — where  the  artist  can  re- 
lieve and  throw  back  his  figures  at  pleasure — use  a  greater  va- 
riety of  contrasts — and  where  light  and  shade,  like  the  colours  of 
fancy,  are  reflected  on  the  different  objects.  The  Muse  of  clas- 
sical poetry  should  be  represented  as  a  beautiful  naked  figure ; 
the  Muse  of  modern  poetry  should  bo  represented  clothed,  and 
14 


202  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

with  wings.  The  first  has  the  advantage  in  point  of  form ;  the 
last  in  colour  and  motion. 

"  Perhaps  we  may  trace  this  difference  to  something  analo- 
gous in  physical  organization,  situation,  religion,  and  manners. 
First,  the  physical  organization  of  the  Greeks  seems  to  have  been 
more  perfect,  more  susceptible  of  external  impressions,  and  more 
in  harmony  with  external  nature  than  ours,  who  have  not  the 
same  advantages  of  climate  and  constitution.  Born  of  a  beauti- 
ful and  vigorous  race,  with  quick  senses  and  a  clear  understand- 
ing, and  placed  under  a  mild  heaven,  they  gave  the  fullest  de- 
velopment to  their  external  faculties :  and  where  all  is  perceived 
easily,  every  thing  is  perceived  in  harmony  and  proportion.  It  is 
:the  stern  genius  of  the  North  which  drives  men  back  upon  their 
fown  resources,  which  makes  them  slow  to  perceive,  and  averse 
'to  feel,  and  which,  by  rendering  them  insensible  to  the  single, 
•successive  impressions  of  things,  requires  their  collective  and 
combined  force  to  rouse  the  imagination  violently  and  unequally. 
It  should  be  remarked,  however,  that  the  early  poetry  of  some 
of  the  Eastern  nations  has  even  more  of  that  irregularity,  wild 
enthusiasm,  and  disproportioned  grandeur,  which  has  been  con- 
sidered as  the  distinguishing  character  of  the  Northern  nations. 

''  Again,  a  good  deal  may  be  attributed  to  the  state  of  manners 
and  political  institutions.  The  ancient  Greeks  were  warlike 
tribes  encamped  in  cities.  They  had  no  other  country  than  that 
which  was  enclosed  within  the  walls  of  the  town  in  which  they 
lived.  Each  individual  belonged,  in  the  first  instance,  to  the 
state ;  and  his  relations  to  it  were  so  close  as  to  take  away,  in  a 
great  measure,  all  personal  independence  and  free-will.  Every 
one  was  mortised  to  his  place  in  society,  and  had  his  station  as- 
signed him  as  part  of  the  political  machine,  which  could  only 
subsist  by  strict  subordination  and  regularity.  Every  man  was, 
as  it  were,  perpetually  on  duty,  and  his  faculties  kept  constant 
watch  and  ward.  Energy  of  purpose  and  intensity  of  observa- 
tion became  the  necessary  characteristics  of  such  a  state  of  so- 
ciety ;  and  the  general  principle  communicated  itself  from  this 
ruling  concern  for  the  public,  to  morals,  to  art,  to  language,  to 
every  thing.  The  tragic  poets  of  Greece  were  among  her  best 
>Boldiers3  and  it  is  no  wonder  that  they  were  as  severe  in  their 


ON  ANCIENT  AND  MODERN  LITERATURE.  203 

poetry  as  in  their  discipline.  Their  swords  and  their  styles 
tjarved  out  their  way  with  equal  sharpness.  After  all,  however, 
the  tragedies  o(  Sophocles,  which  are  the  perfection  of  the  classi- 
cal style,  are  hardly  tragedies  in  our  sense  of  the  word.*  They 
<do  not  exhihit  the  extremity  of  hum£in  passion  and  suffering. 
The  object  of  modern  tragedy  is  to  represent  the  soul  utterly 
subdued  as  it  wer-e,  or  at  least  convulsed  and  overthrown,  by 
passion  or  misfortune.  That  of  the  ancients  was  to  show  how 
the  greatest  crimes  could  be  perpetrated  with  the  least  remorse, 
and  the  greatest  calamities  borne  with  the  least  emotion.  Firm» 
ness  of  purpose  and  calmness  of  sentiment  are  their  leading 
characteristics.  Their  heroes  and  heroines  act  and  suffer  as  if 
they  were  always  in  the  presence  of  a  higher  power,  or  as  if  hu- 
man life  itself  were  a  religious  ceremony,  performed  in  honour 
of  the  Gods  and  of  the  State.  The  mind  is  not  shaken  to  its 
centre ;  the  whole  being  is  not  crushed  or  broken  down.  Con- 
tradictory motives  are  not  accumulated ;  the  utmost  force  of 
imagination  and  passion  is  not  exhausted  to  overcome  the  repug- 
nance of  the  will  to  crime  ;  the  contrast  and  combination  of  out- 
ward accidents  are  not  called  in  to  overwhelm  the  mind  with  the 
whole  weight  of  unexpected  calamity.  The  dire  conflict  of  the 
feelings,  the  desperate  struggle  with  fortune,  are  seldom  there. 
All  is  conducted  with  a  fatal  composure ;  prepared  and  submit- 
ted to  with  inflexible  constancy,  as  if  Nature  were  only  an  in- 
strument in  the  hands  of  Fate. 

"  This  state  of  things  was  afterwards  continued  under  the  Ro- 
man empire.  In  the  ages  of  chivalry  and  romance,  which,  after 
a  considerable  interval,  succeeded  its  dissolution,  and  which 
have  stamped  their  character  on  modern  genius  and  literature, 
all  was  reversed.  Society  was  again  resolved  into  its  compo- 
nent parts  ;  and  the  world  was,  in  a  manner,  to  begin  anew. 
The  ties  which  bound  the  citizen  and  the  soldier  to  the  state  be- 
ing loosened,  each  person  was  thrown  back  into  the  circle  of  the 
domestic  affections,  or  left  to  pursue  his  doubtful  way  to  fame 
and  fortune  alone.  This  interval  of  time  might  be  accordingly 
supposed  to  give  birth  to  all  that  was  constant  in  attachment,  ad- 

*  The  difference  in  the  tone  of  moral  sentiment  is  the  greatest  of  all  others.  ' 


THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 


Tenturous  in  action,  strange,  wild,  and  extravagant  in  invention. 
Human  life  took  the  shape  of  a  busy,  voluptuous  dream,  where 
the  imagination  was  now  lost  amidst  '  antres  vast  and  deserts 
idle ;'  or  suddenly  transported  to  stately  palaces,  echoing  with 
dance  and  song.  In  this  uncertainty  of  events,  this  fluctuation 
of  hopes  and  fears,  all  objects  became  dim,  confused,  and  vague. 
Magicians,  dwarfs,  giants,  followed  in  the  train  of  romance  ;  and 
Orlando's  enchanted  sword,  the  horn  which  he  carried  with  him, 
and  which  he  blew  thrice  at  Ronccsvallcs,  and  Rogero's  winged 
horse,  were  not  sufficient  to  protect  them  in  their  unheard-of  en- 
counters, or  deliver  them  from  their  inextricable  difficulties.  It 
was  a  return  to  the  period  of  the  early  heroic  ages  ;  but  tempered 
by  the  diffierence  of  domestic  manners,  and  the  spirit  of  religion. 
The  marked  difference  in  the  relation  of  the  sexes  arose  from  the 
freedom  of  choice  in  women :  which,  from  being  the  slaves  of 
the  will  and  passions  of  men,  converted  them  into  the  arbiters  of 
their  fate,  w  hich  introduced  thAnodern  system  of  gallantry,  and 
first  made  love  a  feeling  of  the  heart,  founded  on  mutual  affec- 
tion and  esteem.  The  leading  virtues  of  the  Christian  religion^ 
self-denial  and  generosity,  assisted  in  producing  the  same  etiect- 
Hence  the  spirit  of  chivalry,  of  romantic  love  and  honour! 

"  The  mythology  of  the  romantic  poetry  differed  from  the  re- 
ceived religion  :  both  differed  essentially  from  the  classical.  The 
religion  or  mythology  of  the  Greeks  was  nearly  allied  to  their 
poetry  :  it  was  material  and  definite.  The  Pagan  system  re- 
duced the  gods  to  the  human  form,  and  elevated  the  powers  of 
inanimate  nature  to  the  same  standard.  Statues  carved  out 
of  the  finest  marble,  represented  the  objects  of  their  religious 
worship  in  airy  porticos,  in  solemn  temples  and  consecrated 
groves.  Mercury  was  seen  '  new  lighted  on  some  heaven- 
kissing  hill ;'  and  the  Naiad  or  Dryad  came  gracefully  forth 
as  the  personified  genius  of  the  stream  or  wood.  All  was 
Bubjected  to  the  senses.  The  Christian  religion,  on  the  con- 
trary, is  essentially  spiritual  and  abstracted :  it  is  '  the  evi- 
dence of  things  unseen.'  In  the  Heathen  mythology,  form  is 
everywhere  predominant ;  in  the  Christian^  we  find  only  un- 
limited, undefined  power.  The  imagination  a  bne  '  broods  over 
the  immense  abyss,  and  makes  it  pregnant.'     There  is,  in  the 


ON  ANCIENT  AND  MODERN  LITERATURE.  205 


habitual  belief  of  an  universal,  invisible  principle  of  all  things, 
a  vastness  and  obscurity  which  confounds  our  perceptions,  while 
it  exalts  our  piety.  A  mysterious  awe  surrounds  the  doctrines 
of  the  Christian  faith  :  the  infinite  is  everywhere  before  us,  whe- 
ther we  turn  to  reflect  on  what  is  revealed  to  us  of  the  divine 
nature  or  our  own- 

"  History,  as  well  as  religion,  has  contributed  to  enlarge  the 
bounds  of  imagination  ;  and  both  together,  by  showing  past  and  fu- 
ture objects  at  an  interminable  distance,  have  accustomed  the  mind 
to  contemplate  and  take  an  interest  in  the  obscure  and  shadowy. 
The  ancients  were  more  circumscribed  within  '  the  ignorant 
present  time' — spoke  only  their  own  language — were  conversant 
only  with  their  own  customs — were  acquainted  only  with  the 
events  of  their  own  history.  The  mere  lapse  of  time  then,  aided 
by  the  art  of  printing,  has  served  to  accumulate  an  endless  mass 
of  mixed  and  contradictory  materials ;  and,  by  extending  our 
knowledge  to  a  greater  number 'Sf  things,  has  made  our  particu- 
lar ideas  less  perfect  and  distinct.  The  constant  reference  to  a 
former  state  of  manners  and  literature  is  a  marked  feature  in 
modern  poetry.  We  are  always  talking  of  the  Greeks  and 
Romans  : — they  never  said  anything  of  us.  This  circumstance 
has  tended  to  give  a  certain  abstract  elevation,  and  ethereal  re- 
finement to  the  mind,  without  strengthening  it.  We  are  lost  in 
wonder  at  what  has  been  done,  and  dare  not  think  of  emulating 
it.  The  earliest  modern  poets,  accordingly,  may  be  conceived 
to  hail  the  glories  of  the  antique  world,  dawning  through  the 
dark  abyss  of  time ;  while  revelation,  on  the  other  hand,  opened 
its  path  to  the  skies.  So  Dante  represents  himself  as  conducted 
by  Virgil  to  the  shades  below ;  while  Beatrice  welcomes  him  to 
the  abodes  of  the  blest." 

The  French  are  the  only  people  in  modern  Europe  who  have 
professedly  imitated  the  ancients  ;  but  from  their  being  utterly 
unlike  the  Greeks  or  Romans,  they  have  produced  a  dramatic 
style  of  their  own,  which  is  neither  classical  nor  romantic.  The 
same  article  contains  the  following  censure  of  this  style  : 

"  The  true  poet  identifies  the  reader  with  the  characters  he 
represents ;  the  French  poet  only  identifies  him  with  himself- 
There  is  scarcely  a  single  page  of  their  tragedy  which  farrly 


206  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZARETH. 

throws  nature  open  to  you.  It  is  tragedy  in  masquerade.  We 
never  get  beyond  conjecture  and  reasoning — beyond  the  general 
impression  of  the  situation  of  the  persons — beyond  general  re- 
flections on  their  passions — beyond  general  descriptions  of  ob- 
jects. We  never  get  at  that  something  more,  which  is  what  we 
are  in  search  of,  namely,  what  we  ourselves  should  feel  in  the 
same  situations.  The  true  poet  transpo-rts  you  to  the  scene — 
you  see  and  hear  what  is  passing — you  catch,  from  the  lips  of 
the  persons  concerned,  what  lies  nearest  to  their  hearts  ; — the 
French  poet  takes  you  into  his  closet,  and  reads  you  a  lecture 
upon  it.  The  chef-d'(BUvres  of  their  stage,  then,  are,  at  best, 
only  ingenious  paraphrases  af  nature.  The  dialogue  is  a  tissue 
of  common-places,  of  laboured  declamations  an  human  life,  of 
learned  casuistry  on  the  passions,  on  virtue  and  vice,  which  any 
one  else  might  make  just  as  well  as  the  person  speaking  ;  and 
yet,  what  the  persons  themselves  would  say,,  is  all  we  want  to 
know,  and  all  for  which  the  poet^uts  them  inta  those  situations." 
After  the  Restoration,  that  is,  after  the  return  of  the  exiled 
family  of  the  Stuarts  from  France,  our  writers  transplanted  this 
artificial,  monotonous,  and  imposing  common-place  style  into 
England,  by  imitations  and  translations,  where  it  could  not  be 
expected  to  take  deep  root,  and  produce  wholesome  fruits,  and 
where  it  has  indeed  given  rise  to  little  but  turgidity  and  rant  in 
men  of  original  force  of  genius^  and  to  insipidity  and  formalhy 
in  feebler  copyists.  Otvvay  is  the  only  writer  of  this  school, 
who,  in  the  lapse  of  a  century  and  a  half,  has  produced  a  tra- 
gedy (upon  the  classic  or  regular  model)  of  indisputable  excel- 
lence and  lasting  interest.  The  merit  of  '  Venice  Preserved'  is 
not  confined  to  its  effect  on  the  stage,  or  to  the  opportunity  it  af- 
fords for  the  display  of  the  powers  of  the  actors  in  it,  of  a  Jaf- 
fier,  a  Pierre,  a  Belvidera  :  it  reads  as  well  in  the  closet,  and 
loses  little  or  none  of  its  power  of  rivetting  breathless  attention, 
and  stirring  the  deepest  yearnings  of  afiection.  It  has  passages 
of  great  beauty  in  themselves  (detached  from  the  fable)  touches- 
of  true  nature  and  pathos,  though  none  equal  or  indeed  compar- 
able to  what  we  meet  with  in  Shakspeare  and  other  writers  of 
tliat  day  ;  but  the  awful  suspense  of  the  situations,  the  conflict 
of  duties  and  passions,  the  intimate  bonds  that  unite  the  charac- 


ON  ANCIENT  AND  MODERN  LITERATURE.  207 

ters  together,  and  that  are  violently  rent  asunder  like  the  parting 
of  soul  and  body,  the  solemn  march  of  the  tragical  events  to  the 
fatal  catastrophe  that  winds  up  and  closes  over  all,  give  to  this 
production  of  Otway's  Muse  a  charm  and  power  that  bind  it  like 
a  spell  on  the  public  mind,  and  have  made  it  a  proud  and  inse- 
parable adjunct  of  the  English  stage.  Thomson  has  given  it 
due  honour  in  his  feeling  verse,  when  he  exclaims  : 

"  See  o'er  the  stage  the  Ghost  of  Hamlet  stalks, 
Othelo  rages,  poor  Monimia  mourns, 
And  Belvidera  pours  her  soul  in  love." 

There  is  a  mixture  of  effeminacy,  of  luxurious  and  cowardly 
indulgence  of  his  wayward  sensibility,  in  Jaffier's  character, 
which  is,  however,  finely  relieved  by  the  bold,  intrepid  villany 
and  contemptuous  irony  of  Pierre,  while  it  is  excused  by  the  dif- 
ficulties of  his  situation,  and  the  loveliness  of  Belvidera  ;  but  in 
the  '  Orphan'  there  is  little  else  but  this  voluptuous  effeminacy 
of  sentiment  and  mawkish  distress,  which  strikes  directly  at  the 
root  of  that  mental  fortitude  and  heroic  cast  of  thought  which 
alone  makes  tragedy  endurable — that  renders  its  sufferings  pa- 
thetic, or  its  struggles  sublime.  Yet  there  are  lines  and  passages 
in  it  of  extreme  tenderness  and  beauty ;  and  few  persons,  I  con- 
ceive (judging  from  my  own  experience)  will  read  it  at  a  certain 
time  of  life  without  shedding  tears  over  it  as  fast  as  the  "  Ara- 
bian  trees  their  medicinal  gums."  Otway  always  touched  the 
reader,  for  he  had  himself  a  heart.  We  may  be  sure  that  he 
blotted  his  page  often  with  his  tears,  on  which  so  many  drops 
have  since  fallen  from  glistening  eyes,  "  that  sacred  pity  had 
engendered  there."  He  had  susceptibility  of  feeling  and  warmth 
of  genius  ;  but  he  had  not  equal  depth  of  thought  or  loftiness  of 
imagination,  and  indulged  his  mere  sensibility  too  much,  yielding 
to  the  immediate  impression  or  emotion  excited  in  his  own  mind, 
and  not  placing  himself  enough  in  the  minds  and  situations  of 
others,  or  following  the  workings  of  nature  sufficiently  with 
keenness  of  eye  and  strength  of  will  into  its  heights  and  depths, 
its  strongholds  as  well  as  its  weak  sides.  The  '  Orphan'  was 
attempted  to  be  revived  some  time  since,  with  the  advantage  of 
Miss  O'Neill  playing  the  part  of  Monimia.     It,  however,  did  not 


208  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

entirely  succeed  (as  it  appeared  at  the  time)  from  the  plot  turn- 
ing all  on  one  circumstance,  and  that  hardly  of  a  nature  to  be 
obtruded  on  the  public  notice.  The  incidents  and  characters  are 
taken  almost  literally  from  an  old  play  by  Robert  Tailor,  called 
•  The  Hog  hath  Lost  his  Pearl.' 

Addison's  '  Cato,'  in  spite  of  Dennis's  criticism,  still  retains 
possession  of  the  stage  with  all  its  unities.  jMy  love  and  admi- 
ration for  Addison  is  as  great  as  any  person's,  let  that  other 
person  be  who  he  will ;  but  it  is  not  founded  on  his  '  Cato,'  in 
extolling  which  Whigs  and  Tories  contended  in  loud  applause. 
The  interest  of  this  play  (bating  that  shadowy  regret  that  always 
clings  to  and  flickers  round  the  form  of  free  antiquity)  is  con- 
fined to  the  declamation,  which  is  feeble  in  itself,  and  not  heard 
on  the  stage.  I  have  seen  Mr.  Kemble  in  this  part  repeat  the 
'  Soliloquy  on  Death'  without  a  line  being  distinctly  heard ; 
nothing  was  observable  but  the  thouglitful  motion  of  his  lips,  and 
the  occasional  extension  of  his  hand  in  sign  of  doubts  suggested 
or  resolved  ;  yet  this  beautiful  and  expressive  dumb-show,  with 
the  propriety  of  his  costume,  and  the  elegance  of  his  attitude  and 
figure,  excited  the  most  lively  interest,  and  kept  attention  even 
more  on  the  stretch,  to  catch  every  imperfect  syllable  or  speaking 
gesture.  There  is  nothing,  however,  in  the  play  to  excite  ridi- 
cule, or  shock  by  absurdity,  except  the  love  scenes,  which  are 
passed  over  as  what  the  spectator  has  no  proper  concern  with  ; 
and  however  feeble  or  languid  the  interest  produced  by  a  drama- 
tic exhibition,  unless  there  is  some  positive  stumbling-block 
thrown  in  the  way,  or  gross  oflTence  given  to  an  audience,  it  is 
generally  suffered  to  linger  on  to  a  euthanasia,  instead  of  dying 
a  violent  and  premature  death.  If  an  author  (particularly  an 
author  of  high  reputation)  can  contrive  to  preserve  a  uniform  de- 
gree of  insipidity,  lie  is  nearly  sure  of  impunity.  It  is  the  mix- 
ture of  great  faults  with  splendid  passages  (the  more  striking 
from  the  contrast)  that  it  is  inevitable  damnation.  Every  one 
must  have  seen  the  audience  tired  out  and  watching  for  an  op- 
portunity to  wreak  their  vengeance  on  the  author,  and  yet  not 
able  to  accomplish  their  wish,  because  no  one  part  seemed  more 
tiresome  or  worthless  than  another.  The  piiilosophic  mantle  of 
Addison's  '  Cato,'  when  it  no  longer  spreads  its  graceful  folds  on 


ON  ANCIENT  AND  MODERN  LITERATURE.  209 

the  shoulders  of  John  Kemble,  will  I  fear  fall  to  the  ground  ;  nor 
do  I  think  Mr.  Kean  likely  to  pick  it  up  again,  with  dauntless 
ambition  or  stoic  pride,  like  that  of  Coriolanus.  He  could  not 
play  Cato  (at  least  I  think  not)  for  the  same  reason  that  he  will 
play  Coriolanus.  He  can  always  play  a  living  man  ;  he  cannot 
play  a  lifeless  statue. 

Dryden's  plays  have  not  come  down  to  us,  except  in  the  col- 
lection of  his  printed  works.  The  last  of  them  that  was  on  the 
list  of  regular  acting  plays  was  '  Don  Sebastian.'  '  The  Mask 
of  Arthur  and  Emmeline'  was  the  other  day  revived  at  one  of 
our  theatres  without  much  success.  '  Alexander  the  Great'  is  by 
Lee,  who  wrote  some  things  in  conjunction  with  Dryden,  and  who 
had  far  more  power  and  passion  of  an  irregular  and  turbulent 
kind,  bordering  upon  constitutional  morbidity,  and  who  might 
have  done  better  things  (as  we  see  from  his  '  CEdipus')  had  not 
liis  genius  been  perverted  and  rendered  worse  than  abortive  by 
carrying  the  vicious  manner  of  his  age  to  the  greatest  excess. 
Diyden's  plays  are  perhaps  the  fairest  specimen  of  what  this 
manner  was.  I  do  not  know  how  to  describe  it  better  than  by 
saying  that  it  is  one  continued  and  exaggerated  common-place. 
All  the  characters  are  put  into  a  swaggering  attitude  of  dignity, 
and  tricked  out  in  the  pomp  of  ostentatious  drapery.  The 
images  are  extravagant,  yet  not  far-fetched  ;  they  are  outrageous 
caricatures  of  obvious  thoughts  ;  the  language  oscillates  be- 
tween bombast  and  pathos  :  the  characters  are  noisy  pretenders 
to  virtue,  and  shallow  boasters  in  vice ;  the  versification  is  la- 
boured and  monotonous,  quite  unlike  the  admirably  free  and 
flowing  rhyme  of  his  satires,  in  which  he  felt  the  true  inspiration 
of  his  subject,  and  could  find  modulated  sounds  to  express  it. 
Dryden  had  no  dramatic  genius  either  in  tragedy  or  comedy. 
In  his  plays  he  mistakes  blasphemy  for  sublimity,  and  ribaldry 
for  wit.  He  had  so  little  notion  of  his  own  powers,  that  he  has  put 
Milton's  '  Paradise  Lost'  into  dramatic  rhyme  to  make  Adam  look 
like  a  fine  gentleman  ;  and  has  added  a  double  love-plot  to  '  The 
Tempest,'  to  "  relieve  the  killing  languor  and  over-laboured 
lassitude"  of  that  solitude  of  the  imagination,  in  which  Shaks- 
peare  had  left  the  inhabitants  of  his  Enchanted  Island.  I  will 
give  two  passages  out  of  '  Don  Sebastian,'  in  illustration  of  what 
I  have  said  above  of  this  mock-heroic  style. 


210  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

Almeyda  advising  Sebastian  to  fly  from  the  power  of  Muley- 
Moloch,  addresses  him  thus  : 

"  Leave  then  the  luggage  of  your  fate  behind ; 
To  make  your  flight  more  easy,  leave  Almeyda, 
JN'or  think  me  left  a  base,  ignoble  prey, 
Exposed  to  this  inhuman  tyrant's  lust. 
My  virtue  is  a  guard  beyond  my  strength ; 
And  death  my  last  defence  within  my  call." 

Sebastian  answers  very  gravely  : 

"  Death  may  be  called  in  vain,  and  cannot  come : 
Tyrants  can  tie  him  up  from  your  relief: 
Nor  has  a  Christian  privilege  to  die. 
Alas,  thou  art  too  young  in  thy  new  faith  : 
Brutus  and  Cato  might  discharge  their  souls, 
And  give  them  furloughs  for  another  world : 
But  we,  like  sentries,  are  obliged  to  stand, 
In  starless  nights,  and  wait  the  appointed  hour." 

Sebastian  then  urging  her  to  prevent  the  tyrant's  designs  by 
an  instant  marriage,  she  says : 

"  'Tis  late  to  join,  when  we  must  part  so  soon. 

Sebastian.     Nay,  rather  let  us  haste  it,  ere  we  part : 
Our  souls,  for  want  of  that  acquaintance  here, 
May  wander  in  the  starry  walks  above. 
And,  forced  on  worse  companions,  miss  ourselves." 

In  the  scene  with  Muley-Moloch,  where  she  makes  interces- 
sion for  Sebastian's  life,  she  says : 

"  My  father's,  mothers,  brother's  death  I  pardon : 

That's  somewhat  sure,  a  mighty  sum  of  murder, 

Of  innocent  and  kindred  blood  stmck  off. 

My  prayers  and  penance  shall  discount  for  these, 

And  beg  of  Heaven  to  charge  the  bill  on  me : 

Behold  what  price  I  offer,  and  how  dear 

To  buy  Sebastian's  life. 

EmpcrouT.     Let  after-reckonings  trouble  fearful  fools; 
I'll  stand  the  trial  of  those  trivial  crimes  : 
But  since  thou  begg'st  me  to  prescribe  my  terms, 
The  only  I  can  offer  are  thy  love; 
And  this  one  day  of  respite  to  resolve. 


ON  ANCIENT  AND   MODERN  LITERATURE.  211 

Grant  or  deny,  for  thy  next  word  is  Fate; 
And  Fate  is  deaf  to  prayer. 

Almeyda.     May  heav'n  be  so 
At  thy  last  breath  to  thine  :  I  curse  thee  not: 
For  who  can  better  curse  the  plague  or  devil 
Than  to  be  what  they  are '?     Tliat  curse  be  thine. 
Now  do  not  speak,  Sebastian,  for  you  need  not, 
But  die,  for  I  resign  your  life  :     Look,  heav'n, 
Almeyda  dooms  her  dear  Sebastian's  death  ! 
But  is  there  heaven,  for  I  begin  to  doubt  1 
The  skies  are  hush'd;  no  grumbling  thunders  roll: 
Now  take  your  swing,  ye  impious:  sin,  unpunish'd. 
Eternal  Providence  seems  over-watch'd, 
And  with  a  slumbering  nod  assents  to  murder  .  .  . 
Farewell,  my  lost  Sebastian  ! 
I  do  not  beg,  I  challenge  justice  now  : 
O  Powers,  if  Kings  be  your  peculiar  care, 
Why  plays  this  wretch  with  your  prerogative  1 
Now  flash  him  dead,  now  crumble  him  to  ashes: 
Or  henceforth  live  confined  in  your  own  palace ; 
And  look  not  idly  out  upon  a  world 
That  is  no  longer  yours." 

These  passages,  with  many  like  them,  will  be  found  in  the 
first  scene  of  the  third  act. 

The  occasional  striking  expressions,  such  as  that  of  souls  at 
the  resurrection  "  fumbling  for  their  limbs,"  are  the  language 
of  strong  satire  and  habitual  disdain,  not  proper  to  tragic  or 
serious  poetry. 

After  Dryden  there  is  no  writer  that  has  acquired  much  repu- 
tation as  a  tragic  poet  for  the  next  hundred  years.  In  the  hands 
of  his  successors,  the  Smiths,  the  Hughes,  the  Hills,  the  Mur- 
phys,  the  Dr.  Johnsons,  of  the  reigns  of  the  first  Georges,  tra- 
gedy seemed  almost  afraid  to  know  itself,  and  certainly  did  not 
stand  where  it  had  done  a  hundred  and  fifty  years  before.  It 
had  degenerated  by  regular  and  studied  gradations  into  the  most 
frigid,  insipid,  and  insignificant  of  all  things.  It  faded  to  a 
shade,  it  tapered  to  a  point,  "  fine  by  degrees,  and  beautifully 
less."  I  do  not  believe  there  is  a  single  play  of  this  period 
which  could  be  read  with  any  degree  of  interest  or  even  patience, 
by  a  modern  reader  of  poetry,  if  we  except  the  productions  of 
Southern,  Lillo  and   Moore,   the  authors  of   '  The  Gamester/ 


212  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

*  Oroonoko,'  and  '  Fatal  Curiosity,'  and  who,  instead  of  mount- 
ing on  classic  stilts  and  making  rhetorical  flourishes,  went  out 
of  the  established  road  to  seek  for  truth  and  nature  and  effect  in 
the  commonest  life  and  lowest  situations.  In  short,  the  only 
tragedy  of  this  period  is  that  to  which  their  productions  gave  a 
name,  and  which  has  been  called  in  contradistinction  by  the 
French,  and  with  an  express  provision  for  its  merits  and  defects, 
the  '  TragMie  hourgeoise.'  An  anecdote  is  told  of  the  first  of 
these  writers  by  Gray,  in  one  of  his  letters,  dated  from  Horace 
Walpole's  country-seat,  about  the  year  1740,  who  says,  "  Old 
Mr.  Southern  is  here,  who  is  now  above  80 ;  a  very  agreeable 
old  man,  at  least  I  think  so  when  I  look  in  his  face,  and  think  of 
Isabella  and  Oroonoko."  It  is  pleasant  to  see  these  traits  of  at- 
tachment and  gratitude  kept  up  in  successive  generations  of 
poets  to  one  another,  and  also  to  find  that  the  same  works  of 
genius  that  have  "  sent  us  weeping  to  our  beds,"  and  made  us 
"  rise  sadder  and  wiser  on  the  morrow  morn,"  have  excited  just 
the  same  fondness  of  affection  in  others  before  we  were  born ; 
and  it  is  to  be  hoped  will  do  so  after  we  are  dead.  Our  best 
feelings,  and  those  on  which  we  pride  ourselves  most,  and  with 
most  reason,  are  perhaps  the  commonest  of  all  others. 

Up  to  the  present  reign,  and  during  the  best  part  of  it  (with 
another  solitary  exception,  '  Douglas,'  which,  with  all  its  feeble- 
ness and  extravagance,  has  in  its  style  and  sentiments  a  good 
deal  of  poetical  and  romantic  beauty,)  Tragedy  wore  the  face  of 
the  Goddess  of  Dulness  in  the  '  Dunciad,'  serene,  torpid,  sickly, 
lethargic  and  affected,  till  it  was  roused  from  its  trance  by  the 
blast  of  the  French  Revolution,  and  by  the  loud  trampling  of  the 
German  Pegasus  on  the  English  stage,  which  now  appeared  as 
pawing  to  get  free  from  its  ancient  trammels,  and  rampant  shook 
off  the  incumbrance  of  all  former  examples,  opinions,  prejudices, 
and  principles.  If  we  have  not  been  alive  and  well  since  this 
period,  at  least  we  have  been  alive,  and  it  is  better  to  be  alive 
tiian  dead.  The  German  tragedy  (and  our  own,  which  is  only 
a  branch  of  it,)  aims  at  effect,  and  produces  it  oflen  in  the  highest 
degree ;  and  it  does  this  by  going  all  the  lengths  not  only  of  in- 
stinctive feeling,  but  of  speculative  opinion,  and  startling  the 
hearer  by  overturning  all  the  established  maxims  of  society,  and 


ON  THE  GERMAN  DRAMA.  213 

setting  at  nought  all  the  received  rules  of  composition.  It  can- 
not be  said  of  this  style  that  in  it  "  decorum  is  the  principal 
thing."  It  is  the  violation  of  decorum  that  is  its  first  and  last 
principle,  the  beginning,  middle,  and  end.  It  is  an  insult 
and  defiance  to  Aristotle's  definition  of  tragedy.  The  action 
is  not  grave,  but  extravagant :  the  fable  is  not  probable,  but 
improbable :  the  favourite  characters  are  not  only  low,  but  vi- 
cious :  the  sentiments  are  such  as  do  not  become  the  person 
into  whose  mouth  they  are  put,  nor  that  of  any  other  person : 
the  language  is  a  mixture  of  metaphysical  jargon  and  flaring 
prose :  the  moral  is  immorality.  In  spite  of  all  this,  a  German 
tragedy  is  a  good  thing.  It  is  a  fine  hallucination :  it  is  a  noble 
madness,  and  as  there  is  a  pleasure  in  madness  which  none  but 
madmen  know,  so  there  is  a  pleasure  in  reading  a  German  play 
to  be  found  in  no  other.  The  world  have  thought  so :  they  go 
to  see  '  The  Stranger,'  they  go  to  see  '  Lovers'  Vows,'  and  '  Pi- 
zarro,'  they  have  their  eyes  wide  open  all  the  time,  and  almost 
cry  them  out  before  they  come  away,  and  therefore  they  go 
again.  There  is  something  in  the  style  that  hits  the  temper  of 
men's  minds ;  that,  if  it  does  not  hold  the  mirror  up  to  nature, 
yet  "  shows  the  very  age  and  body  of  the  time,  its  form  and 
pressure."  It  embodies,  it  sets  off  and  aggrandizes  in  all  the 
pomp  of  action,  in  all  the  vehemence  of  hyperbolical  declama- 
tion, in  scenery,  in  dress,  in  music,  in  the  glare  of  the  senses, 
and  the  glow  of  sympathy,  the  extreme  opinions  which  are 
floating  in  our  time,  and  which  have  struck  their  roots  deep  and 
wide  below  the  surface  of  the  public  mind.  We  are  no  longer 
as  formerly,  heroes  in  warlike  enterprize ;  martyrs  to  religious 
faith  ;  but  we  are  all  the  partisans  of  a  political  system,  and  de- 
votees to  some  theory  of  moral  sentiments.  The  modern  style 
of  tragedy  is  not  assuredly  made  up  of  pompous  common-place, 
but  it  is  a  tissue  of  philosophical,  political,  and  moral  paradoxes. 
I  am  not  saying  whether  these  paradoxes  are  true  or  false :  all 
that  I  mean  to  state  is,  that  they  are  utterly  at  variance  with  old 
opinions,  with  established  rules  and  existing  institutions ;  that  it 
is  this  tug  of  war  between  the  inert  prejudice  and  the  startling 
novelty  which  is  to  batter  it  down  (first  on  the  stage  of  the 
theatre,  and  afterwards  on  the  stage  of  the  world,)  that  gives  the 


214  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

excitement  and  the  zest.  We  see  the  natural  always  pitted 
against  the  social  man ;  and  the  majority,  who  are  not  of  the 
privileged  classes,  take  part  with  the  former.  The  hero  is  a 
sort  of  metaphysical  Orson,  armed  not  with  teeth  and  a  club, 
but  with  hard  sayings  and  unanswerable  sentences,  ticketed  and 
labelled  with  extracts  and  mottos  from  the  modern  philosophy. 
This  common  representative  of  mankind  is  a  natural  son  of  some 
feudal  lord,  or  wealthy  baron :  and  he  comes  to  claim,  as  a  mat- 
ter of  course  and  of  simple  equity,  the  rich  reversion  of  the  title 
and  estates  to  which  he  has  a  right  by  the  bounty  of  nature  and 
the  privilege  of  his  birth.  This  produces  a  very  edifying  scene, 
and  the  proud,  unfeeling,  unprincipled  baron  is  hooted  from  the 
stage.  A  young  woman,  a  sempstress,  or  a  waiting-maid  of 
much  beauty  and  accomplishment,  who  would  not  think  of 
matching  with  a  fellow  of  low  birth  or  fortune  for  the  world, 
falls  in  love  with  the  heir  of  an  immense  estate  out  of  pure  re- 
gard to  his  mind  and  person,  and  thinks  it  strange  that  rank  and 
opulence  do  not  follow  as  natural  appendages  in  the  train  of  sen- 
timent. A  lady  of  fashion,  wit,  and  beauty,  forfeits  the  sanctity 
of  her  marriage-vow,  but  preserves  the  inviolability  of  her  sen- 
timents and  character, 

"  Pure  in  the  last  recesses  of  the  mind" — 

and  triumphs  over  false  opinion  and  prejudice,  like  gold  out  of 
the  fire,  the  brighter  for  the  ordeal.  A  young  man  turns  rob- 
ber and  captain  of  a  gang  of  banditti ;  and  the  wonder  is  to  see 
the  heroic  ardour  of  his  sentiments,  his  aspirations  after  the  most 
godlike  goodness  and  unsullied  reputation,  working  their  way 
through  the  repulsiveness  of  his  situation,  and  making  use  of 
fortune  only  as  a  foil  to  nature.  The  principle  of  contrast  and 
contradiction  is  here  made  use  of,  and  no  other.  All  qualities 
are  reversed  :  virtue  is  always  at  odds  with  vice,  "  which  shall 
be  which  :"  the  internal  character  and  external  situation,  the 
actions  and  the  sentiments,  are  never  in  accord :  you  are  to 
judge  of  every  thing  by  contraries :  those  that  exalt  themselves 
are  abased,  and  those  that  should  be  humbled  are  exalted  :  the 
high  places  and  strongholds  of  power  and  greatness  are  crum- 
bled  in  the  dust ;  opinions  totter,  feelings  are  brought  into  ques- 


ON  THE  GERMAN  DRAMA.  215 

tion,  and  the  world  is  turned  upside  down,  with  all  things  in  it ! 
'•  There  is  some  soul  of  goodness  in  things  evil" — and  there  is 
some  soul  of  goodness  in  all  this.  The  world  and  every  thing  in 
it  is  not  just  what  it  ought  to  be,  or  what  it  pretends  to  be  ;  or 
such  extravagant  and  prodigious  paradoxes  would  be  driven  from 
the  stage — would  meet  with  sympathy  in  no  human  breast,  high 
or  low,  young  or  old.  "  Thcre^s  something  rotten  in  the  state  of 
Denmark.'''  Opinion  is  not  truth:  appearance  is  not  reality: 
power  is  not  beneficence  :  rank  is  not  wisdom  :  nobility  is  not 
the  only  virtue  :  riches  are  not  happiness  :  desert  and  success 
are  different  things :  actions  do  not  always  speak  the  character 
any  more  than  words.  We  feel  this,  and  do  justice  to  the  ro- 
mantic extravagance  of  the  German  Muse. 

In  Germany,  where  this  outre  style  of  treating  every  thing  es- 
tablished and  adventitious  was  carried  to  its  height,  there  were, 
as  we  learn  from  '  The  Sorrows  of  Werter,'  seven-and-twenty 
ranks  in  society,  each  raised  above  the  other,  and  of  which  the 
one  above  did  not  speak  to  the  one  below  it.  Is  it  wonderful 
that  the  poets  and  philosophers  of  Germany,  the  discontented  men 
of  talent,  who  thought  and  mourned  for  themselves  and  their  fel- 
lows, the  Goethes,  the  Lessings,  the  Schillers,  the  Kotzebues,  felt 
a  sudden  and  irresistible  impulse  by  a  convulsive  effort  to  tear 
aside  this  factitious  drapery  of  society,  and  to  throw  off  that  load 
of  bloated  prejudice,  of  maddening  pride  and  superannuated 
folly,  that  pressed  down  every  energy  of  their  nature  and  stifled 
the  breath  of  liberty,  of  truth  and  genius,  in  their  bosoms  ? 
These  Titans  of  our  days  tried  to  throw  off  the  dead  weight  that 
encumbered  them,  and  in  so  doing,  warred  not  against  heaven, 
but  against  earth.  The  same  writers  (as  far  as  I  have  seen) 
have  made  the  only  incorrigible  Jacobins,  and  their  school  of 
poetry  is  the  only  real  school  of  Radical  Reform. 

In  reasoning,  truth  and  soberness  may  prevail,  on  which  side 
soever  they  meet :  but  in  works  of  imagination  novelty  has  the 
advantage  over  prejudice  ;  that  which  is  striking  and  unheard-of 
over  that  which  is  trite  and  known  before,  and  that  which  gives 
unlimited  scope  to  the  indulgence  of  the  feelings  and  the  passions 
(whether  erroneous  or  not)  over  that  which  imposes  a  restraint 
upon  them. 


816  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

I  have  half  trifled  with  this  subject;  and  I  believe  I  have 
done  so  because  I  despaired  of  finding  language  for  some  old 
rooted  feelings  I  have  about  it,  which  a  theory  could  neither  give 
nor  can  it  take  away.  '  The  Robbers'  was  the  first  play  I  ever  read  : 
and  the  effect  it  produced  upon  me  was  the  greatest.  It  stunned  me 
like  a  blow,  and  I  have  not  recovered  enough  from  it  to  describe 
how  it  was.  There  are  impressions  which  neither  time  nor  circum- 
stahces  can  efface.  Were  I  to  live  much  longer  than  I  have  any 
chance  of  doing,  the  books  which  I  read  when  I  was  young  I  can 
never  forget.  Five-and-twenty  years  have  elapsed  since  I  first 
read  the  translation  of  '  The  Robbers/  but  they  have  not  blotted 
the  impression  from  my  mind  :  it  is  here  still,  an  old  dweller  in  the 
chambers  of  the  brain.  The  scene  in  particular  in  which  Moor 
looks  through  his  tears  at  the  evening  sun  from  the  mountain's 
brow,  and  says  in  his  despair,  "  It  was  my  wish  like  him  to  live, 
like  him  to  die  :  it  was  an  idle  thought,  a  boy's  conceit,"  took 
fast  hold  of  my  imagination,  and  that  sun  has  to  me  never  set! 
The  last  interview  in  '  Don  Carlos'  between  the  two  lovers,  in 
which  the  injured  bride  struggles  to  burst  the  prison-house  of 
her  destiny,  in  which  her  hopes  and  youth  lie  coffined,  and 
buried,  as  it  were,  alive,  under  the  oppression  of  unspeakable 
anguish,  I  remember  gave  me  a  deep  sense  of  suffering  and  a, 
strong  desire  after  good,  which  has  haunted  me  ever  since.  I 
do  not  like  Schiller's  later  style  so  well.  His  '  Wallenstein,' 
which  is  admirably  and  almost  literally  translated  by  Mr.  Cole- 
ridge, is  stately,  thoughtful,  and  imaginative  :  but  where  is  the 
enthusiasm,  the  throbbing  of  hope  and  fear,  the  mortal  struggle 
between  the  passions  ;  as  if  all  the  happiness  or  misery  of  a  life 
were  crowded  into  a  moment,  and  the  die  was  to  be  cast  that  in- 
stant ?  Kotzebue's  best  work  I  read  first  in  Cumberland's  imita- 
tion of  it  in  *  The  Wheel  of  Fortune  ;'  and  I  confess  that  that 
style  of  sentiment  which  seems  to  make  of  life  itself  a  long-drawn 
endless  sigh,  has  something  in  it  tliat  pleases  me,  in  spite  of  rules 
and  criticism.  Goethe's  tragedies  are  (those  that  I  have  seen  of 
them,  his  '  Count  Egmont,'  *  Stella,'  &c.)  constructed  upon  the 
second  or  inverted  manner  of  the  German  stage,  with  a  delibe- 
rate design  to  avoid  all  possible  effect  and  interest,  and  this  ob- 
ject is  completely  accomplished.     lie  is  however  spoken  of  with 


ON  THE  GERMAN  DRAMA.  217 


enthusiasm  almost  amounting  to  idolatry  by  his  countrymen,  and 
those  among  ourselves  who  import  heavy  German  criticism  into 
this  country  in  shallow,  flat- bottomed  unwieldly  intellects. 
Madame  de  Stael  speaks  of  one  passage  in  his  '  Iphigenia,' 
where  he  introduces  a  fragment  of  an  old  song,  which  the  Furies 
are  supposed  to  sing  to  Tantalus  in  Hell,  reproaching  him  with 
the  times  when  he  sat  with  the  Gods  at  their  golden  tables,  and 
with  his  after-crimes  that  hurled  him  from  heaven,  at  which  he 
turns  his  eyes  from  his  children  and  hangs  his  head  in  mournful 
silence.  This  is  the  true  sublime.  Of  all  his  works  I  like  his 
'  Werter'  best,  nor  would  I  part  with  it  at  a  venture,  even  for  the 
'  Memoirs  of  Anastasius  the  Greek,'  whoever  is  the  author  ;  nor 
ever  cease  to  think  of  the  times,  "  when  in  the  fine  summer 
evenings  they  saw  the  frank,  noble-minded  enthusiast  coming  up 
from  the  valley,"  nor  of  "  the  high  grass  that  by  the  light  of  the 
departing  sun  waved  in  the  breeze  over  his  grave." 

But  I  have  said  enough  to  give  an  idea  of  this  modern  style, 
com.pared  with  our  own  early  Dramatic  Literature,  of  which  I 
had  to  treat.  I  have  done :  and  if  I  have  done  no  better,  the 
fault  has  been  in  me,  not  in  the  subject.  My  liking  to  this  grew 
with  my  knowledge  of  it :  but  so  did  my  anxiety  to  do  it  justice. 
I  somehow  felt  it  as  a  point  of  honour  not  to  make  my  hearers 
think  less  highly  of  some  of  these  old  writers  than  I  myself  did  of 
them.  If  I  have  praised  an  author,  it  was  because  I  liked  him  : 
if  I  have  quoted  a  passage,  it  was  because  it  pleased  me  in  the 
reading  :  if  I  have  spoken  contemptuously  of  any  one,  it  has  been 
reluctantly.  It  is  no  easy  task,  that  a  writer,  even  in  so  humble 
a  class  as  myself,  takes  upon  him  ;  he  is  scouted  and  ridiculed  if 
he  fails ;  and  if  he  succeeds,  the  enmity  and  cavils  and  malice 
with  which  he  is  assailed,  are  just  in  proportion  to  his  success. 
The  coldness  and  jealousy  of  his  friends  not  unfrequently  keep 
pace  with  the  rancour  of  his  enemies.  They  do  not  like  you  a 
bit  the  better  for  fulfilling  the  good  opinion  they  always  enter- 
tained of  you.  They  would  wish  you  to  be  always  promising  a 
great  deal,  and  doing  nothing,  that  they  may  answer  for  the  per- 
formance. That  shows  their  sagacity,  and  does  not  hurt  their 
vanity.  An  author  wastes  his  time  in  painful  study  and  obscure- 
researches,  to  gain  a  little  breath  of  popularity,  meets  with  nothing 
15 


218  THE  AGE  OE  ELIZABETH. 


but  vexation  and  disappointment  in  ninety-nine  instances  out  of  a 
hundred  ;  or  when  he  thinks  to  grasp  the  luckless  prize,  finds  it 
not  worth  the  trouble — the  perfume  of  a  minute,  fleeting  as  a 
shadow,  hollow  as  a  sound  :  "  as  often  got  without  merit  as  lost 
without  deserving."  He  thinks  that  the  attainment  of  acknow- 
lodged  excellence  will  secure  him  the  expression  of  those  feelings 
in  others,  which  the  image  and  hope  of  it  had  excited  in  his  own 
breast,  but  instead  of  that  he  meets  with  nothing  (or  scarcely 
nothing)  but  squint-eyed  suspicion,  idiot  wonder,  and  grinning 
scorn.  It  seems  hardly  worth  while  to  have  taken  all  the  pains 
he  has  been  at  for  this  ! 

In  youth  we  borrow  patience  from  our  future  years :  the  spring 
of  hope  gives  us  courage  to  act  and  suffer.  A  cloud  is  upon  our 
onward  path,  and  we  fancy  that  all  is  sunshine  beyond  it.  The 
prospect  seems  endless,  because  we  do  not  know  the  end  of  it. 
We  think  that  life  is  long,  because  art  is  so,  and  that,  because 
we  have  much  to  do,  it  is  well  worth  doing :  or  that  no  exertions 
can  be  too  great,  no  sacrifices  too  painful,  to  overcome  the  diffi- 
culties we  have  to  encounter.  Life  is  a  continued  struggle  to  be 
what  we  are  not,  and  to  do  what  we  cannot.  But  as  we  approach 
the  goal,  we  draw  in  the  reins  ;  the  impulse  is  less,  as  we  have 
not  so  far  to  go  ;  as  we  see  objects  nearer,  we  become  less  san- 
guine in  the  pursuit :  it  is  not  the  despair  of  not  attaining,  so 
much  as  knowing  that  there  is  nothing  worth  obtaining,  and  the 
fear  of  having  nothing  left  even  to  wish  for,  that  damps  our  ardour 
and  relaxes  our  efforts  ;  and  if  the  mechanical  habit  did  not  in- 
crease the  facility,  would,  I  believe,  take  away  all  inclination  or 
power  to  do  anything.  We  stagger  on  the  few  remaining  paces 
to  the  end  of  our  journey;  make  perhaps  one  final  efTort;  and 
are  glad  when  our  task  is  done  ! 


THE  END. 


L 


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